A Stroke of Bad Luck
by neonchica
Summary: Tragedy strikes the boys once again, and it's going to take everything they have to get through the latest turn of events.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own Dean, Sam, or anything seemingly affiliated with Supernatural, however the story is a product of my own imagination. **

_Hi guys! I'm baaaack! Here's yet another story that I couldn't get out of my mind, so I wrote it for you guys. Hope you enjoy. And, as usual, don't forget to review. I'm dying to know what you think...good or bad._

A/N: I make up my own names for my monsters and demons because I'm too lazy to search through the droves of supernatural creatures in order to find the "right" one to make a ten second showing in my stories. Therefore, any resemblance to a real anything is purely coincidental and totally unintentional. If any of you know a good cross reference site, I'd happily use it to aptly name my creatures.

Ignoring his pounding headache, Dean sauntered up to the bar, leaning casually against the carved oak as he placed his order for a beer. His eyes scanned the room while he waited for the drink, mentally rating every female he saw before finding the evening's perfect ten. He felt relief noting that he wouldn't need to move very far to be near the petite blonde that he finally set his sights on, and bottle in hand, Dean made his way to the lone girl sipping her Cosmopolitan four stools down from where he stood. _A bit cliche, but she's cute enough to pull it off, _Dean thought as he put on his best come hither smile.

"Is this seat taken?" Dean asked seductively, not waiting for her reply before sliding onto the vacant stool.

She looked up from her drink, a warm smile glowing over her entire face. "It is now," she replied.

Leaning back against the bar, elbows propped on the platform, Dean eyed the girl with a strong air of confidence. "I'm Dean," he announced, as though that was all she would ever need to know in order to decide she had fallen madly, deeply, in love; or, at the very least, under his spell.

The girl responded exactly as he had hoped she would, practically swooning at the sight of his baby blues and his million dollar smile. "Cassie," she answered, trying desperately to match even a quotient of his confidence. "It's a pleasure, Dean."

Dean reached for the hand she held out to him, closing it gently around her finger tips. "The pleasure is _all_ mine," he crooned, kissing the top of the hand with soft lips.

If Sam had been watching any of the exchange he would have been rolling his eyes before the first words left Dean's mouth. But he was settled into a bench along the far wall of the bar, lost in thought as he did research on their next hunt. As always, it had been Dean's idea, order actually, to drop in on the local nightlife before leaving town the next morning. Sam had protested, claiming exhaustion from fighting their most recent prey, but Dean had insisted. Even when Sam had made a show of pointing out how pale Dean looked, suggesting making it an early night instead of a very late one, Dean had argued against it. And, of course, Dean had won.

Every now and then, Sam did look up, smirking as he watched Dean working his game on the poor, unsuspecting girl. He had to give his brother credit. Sam had seen the way he'd cradled his head after it was used by the Grislock to break down a door, and Sam knew Dean was in pain. But even with a head injury, Dean was still able to perform amazing feats of magic on every girl he set his sights on. Watching him now, Sam had to admit he could barely tell that the boy was suffering from a concussion.

The girl, Cassie, was eating up every word Dean said to her. He'd gone simple this time, deciding for once to just be passing through on a sight-seeing tour of the country instead of one of his over the top stories he usually told. As usual, he'd been right on the money. The girl thought it 'romantic' and 'exciting,' and she'd looked at him with stars in her eyes. She probably would have happily climbed into the passenger seat of the Impala for the remainder of the trip had Dean offered her the opportunity. In her eyes, Dean had seen fascination, bright sparks of eagerness at his every word.

So it worried him when she suddenly started looking at him with confusion, and maybe even a slight tinge of disgust.

"The classic handed it a granted hairpin," Dean slurred, drawing his hand to his temple and rubbing at the pain invading his head.

"What?" Cassie asked, stifling a laugh at the nonsense suddenly coming from Dean's mouth. She didn't know what had prompted it, but she figured it had to be some obscure attempt at a joke.

"Liars don't eat heaven by night," Dean added, his tone desperately trying to re-engage Cassie in their conversation and not understanding why she had so suddenly stopped hanging on his every word.

And then his right arm went numb, dropping limply from his temple to his side. His gaze followed, viewing the action in a blur of slow motion as he attempted to comprehend its meaning.

Suddenly fear encompassed Cassie's face and she leaned in towards Dean. "Are you OK?" She worried. But Dean didn't actually hear what she said; only the echo of sound booming in his ears as she moved choppily in front of his eyes, as though backlit by a strobe light.

He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs that had suddenly tacked themselves to his brain. Blinking his eyes, Dean looked back at the cute blond sitting in front of him and calling him by name. "Who are you?" he whispered anxiously to the girl before grabbing his head once again with the still working arm. An anguished yowl let loose from the depths of his throat before he collapsed on the floor, deep in the throws of a seizure.

Sam had looked up from the laptop just in time to see Dean drop to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He sprang from the booth and was at Dean's side in a second, frantically demanding answers from the shaking girl hovering above his brother and shouting for someone to call an ambulance at the same time. Pulling Dean's head into his lap, Sam had the presence of mind to remove the sweatshirt from around his waist and shove the sleeve between the man's teeth, a meager effort to keep Dean from biting his tongue.

"I don't know what happened," the girl stammered, flopping her hands up and down in a desperate attempt to slow their shaking. "One minute we were having a conversation and the next thing I know he was still talking but he wasn't making any sense. And then his hand went limp, and he seemed to forget who I was, and then he went down. That's all I know." Tears streamed from the girl's eyes and she sank heavily onto the stool, bracing herself against the bar. "Nothing like this has ever happened to me before."

_Leave it to Dean to find a chick totally involved in herself. _If he wasn't so preoccupied with his brother, Sam would have made a snide comment to the girl who seemed more concerned with her own feelings than those of the man who'd been talking her up for the past half hour. But Sam ignored the comment and continued to focus on Dean. He'd finally stopped writhing on the floor, but was now unresponsive.

"Dean, come on Dean, wake up," Sam pleaded, rocking his brother's body back and forth. "You have to be OK. Come on, Dean. You're gonna be fine."

A crowd had gathered, the action by the bar decidedly more exciting than any game of pool or darts they had been involved with seconds before. The medics had to shove their way though the throng of half drunk oglers in order to get to their charge, and one of the three remained standing until the police arrived in order to do crowd control.

Strong hands grasped Sam's arms, forcefully prying him off his unconscious brother as a soothing voice whispered in his ear. "It's OK, son. We're here to help," the warm, fatherly voice assured Sam when he noticed Sam pulling tighter against Dean's shirt. "You need to let him go. You need to let us help him."

Sam finally allowed himself to be pried free and he watched, shell shocked, as the medics went to work on Dean. They stabilized him, immobilizing his head and strapping him tightly onto the backboard. Oxygen was applied to Dean's nose and mouth by means of a mask, and Sam found himself mesmerized by the breath fog that materialized and disappeared to the beat of Dean's breathing, silently thankful for that small bit of fortune.

Somewhere within his haze, Sam heard another voice ask if his brother was allergic to any medications, and he shook his head automatically. "Not that I know of," Sam answered in hushed tones. "Is he going to be OK?"

The voice was quick to reply, but didn't give Sam the answer he wanted. "He's in good hands, son. We're going to do everything in our power."

"But I don't understand. What's wrong with him? What's happened to my brother?" Panic and frustration rose in Sam's tone, and the paramedics did little to alleviate his fears.

"We don't know yet. The doctor's need to be able to check him out before we can make any speculation. He just needs to get to the hospital. Will you be riding with us?"

Sam's thoughts immediately went to the Impala, sitting idly in the parking lot. If Dean woke up to find that Sam had dared leave it behind Dean would make sure Sam's unconscious body saw the inside of an OR. The decision tormented him; ensure Dean's well-being or save his own ass. Dean won out. "Yeah, I'm coming with you," he announced, already chasing after Dean and the stretcher he was being wheeled out on. _I'll deal with the car once I know Dean's gonna be OK._

They wasted no time on the ride to the hospital, but to Sam it seemed to take years. Dean remained stable in the ambulance, but never regained consciousness, and Sam practically drove the medics crazy asking what was wrong and when would his brother wake up.

When the ambulance jolted to a stop in front of the ER, Sam jumped to his feet and prepared, once again, to chase after Dean as he was wheeled down the corridor and into the off limits area. He made it less than half way before he felt his arm jerked back roughly by an orderly.

"You can't go in there," the young man ordered, puffing out his chest to make himself appear more intimidating.

If Sam had been in a better mood, he probably would have laughed at the sight. The orderly couldn't have been more than nineteen, and from the looks of him still had yet to fully achieve puberty. His spindly arms and legs seemed too long for his five-foot-six frame, and the acne littering his face made him seem more like a little boy trying on daddy's work uniform than a man supposedly in charge of keeping people from unauthorized locations. For a second, Sam contemplated simply shoving the boy out of the way and running after Dean, but a nurse put a stop to that idea.

"I need you to fill out some papers for your brother," the plump, mid-forties woman insisted, tugging at his arm and leading him to the waiting area.

Surprising even himself, Sam allowed the woman to plant him into a seat and plop the stack of papers onto his lap without so much as a 'not until you tell me about my brother.' He stared in bewilderment at the pile before him, suddenly forgetting everything he'd ever learned about fudging insurance papers. His hands shook as he lifted the pen to the first line: patient's name.

Wracking his brain for the appropriate answer took time; he needed to remember what ID Dean had last had in his pocket when they entered the bar. His mind spun. This had all been so sudden. There were times when he expected to make a detour to the hospital; times when they'd been on a hunt and one or both of them had been too hurt to perform their own limited medical expertise. He prepared himself when they were on the hunt. But when the job was over, he let his guard down. Never in a million years had he ever expected Dean to go down in a bar in front of a beautiful woman, especially without a pool stick or deck of cards in his hands.

_Name. Patient's name. _His memory finally returned and Sam was able to fill in the empty space. _Dean...O'Malley._ As he regained his senses, little by little, Sam was able to fill in the remainder of the lines with relative ease and then pass it back to the nurse, grinning almost triumphantly.

"Has there been any news on my brother yet?" Sam asked anxiously after he'd given the nurse ample time to read over the chart and ensure that everything was filled in. She tightened her lips and fed Sam a pitying look. "I'm sorry, dear. There's nothing yet."

Sam nodded, offering her a reserved half smile, appreciative of that fact that she, at the very least, appeared to care. "I'll be right over there," he pointed to the cluster of chairs closest to the hallway Dean had disappeared down. "Will you please let me know as soon as you hear anything?"

The woman nodded again, and Sam actually felt somewhat reassured. "Of course, honey. I'll let you know first thing."

It was several hours before Sam noticed a doctor emerge from the double doors at the end of the hallway. He watched in desperate curiosity as the man approached the nurses desk, speak with the woman for a few seconds, and then saw her point in his direction. Sam rose immediately, closing most of the distance between himself and the doctor before the man had even had a chance to fully turn around.

"Do you have information on my brother?" Sam demanded anxiously, bouncing on his toes in his nervousness.

The doctor looked distinguished; early fifties with salt and pepper hair and a very professional demeanor. Sam immediately felt at ease, deciding just by looking, that he trusted the man to care for his brother. Nodding, the doctor motioned back toward the chairs. "I do. Why don't we have a seat and talk."

Sam spastically bobbed his head up and down, practically sprinting to take a seat in order to bridge the time before he received word on Dean's condition. "My name's Sam," he added.

"And I'm Dr. Northrop," the man offered. "I have a few questions for you about your brother."

Focus was paid entirely to the doctor as Sam waited for information. Leaning forward intently, he set his elbows on his knees and folded his hands tightly. "So how is he? Is Dean going to be OK?"

Dr. Northrop sighed, mimicking Sam's posture. "Sam, can you tell me...has your brother received any head injuries recently?"

It was all he could do to keep from snorting. _What do you consider recently? _he scoffed to himself. _There was the Grislock throwing him into the door just last night. And then the Minlaur using his head as a punching bag a week ago. And let's not forget the bar fight he got into two weeks back. _Sam looked at the doctor sheepishly. "He definitely gets hit in the head more than your average person," Sam offered, dredging up the first verbal white lie of the ordeal. "My brother's kinda an extreme sport buff. You know...he likes the danger. The rush."

Tightening his mouth, the doctor looked at Sam with worry. "Sam, I'm afraid your brother's love for 'the rush' as you put it has caused tonight's incident. I'm still waiting on some test results to be certain, but from what I've already noted it appears Dean suffered a stroke tonight. And it seems to have been aggravated by a seizure."

Sam's snickered reply bordered on hysterics, and he blinked several times as he waited for the doctor's mouth to turn into a smile and for Dean to emerge unscathed from the ER, slipping the doctor a twenty and a high five before leading a bewildered Sam from the hospital. But that didn't happen, and the doctor continued to stare at Sam, waiting for a response; at the very least, recognition of the fact he had spoken. "There...there must be some kind of mistake," Sam stammered, nervously wringing his sweating hands. "I don't think we're talking about the same man. My...my brother's only twenty-six; he can't have had a stroke."

"Sam, I'm so sorry. You are half correct; the majority of stroke victims are older. But sometimes, as in your brother's case, they can be caused by severe head trauma."

Sam nodded, deadly serious now as he realized this was far from a joke. "So what does this mean, doctor? I mean - for him. How is this going to affect him?"

"It's too early to tell," Dr. Northrop replied apologetically. "We won't know a whole lot until he actually wakes up. The clot occurred in the left side of his brain, so he'll likely be affected on the right side of the body. There could be weakness or paralysis on that side, he could have difficulty with speech, trouble with memory... and of course, you need to be prepared for the emotional side of all this. This is a difficult thing to deal with in the best of situations, but with your brother being so young, he's bound to have trouble accepting this."

"You have no idea," Sam muttered. Lowering his head into his outstretched hands, Sam tried desperately to ward off the onslaught of tears that were mere nanoseconds from attacking him. But he wasn't about to let his emotions get the better of him. _What would Dean think?_ He wiped at his eyes as he lifted his face to the doctor again. "I need to see my brother."


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't own Dean, Sam, or anything seemingly affiliated with Supernatural, however the story is a product of my own imagination. **

_Wow! The response for this story was overwhelming; the best yet. Thanks so much for all your kind reviews. Just a side note for those of you waiting on the epilogue for Phantasm - it's coming. I promise. Just have patience._ _Keep those reviews coming!_

Dean was pale. Pale enough to blend in with the sheets that were pulled to his chin. Pale enough to make the white-washed walls of the hospital room look yellow by comparison. Pale enough to make Sam question if his brother was even still alive.

It was only after Sam saw the steady rise and fall of Dean's chest, aided only by the plastic tubing of the nasal cannula shoved awkwardly in his nostrils, that he allowed himself to let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. An IV dripped a clear fluid into Dean's arm, and the pulse-ox machine clipped to his left index finger delivered a steady stream of data to the monitor that provided the read. Sam took several seconds to study the output, realizing immediately that he had no idea what it meant, but finding it comforting that the doctors and nurses didn't seem concerned by what it said.

Aside from his pallid complexion and the dark circles that stood out like shadows from his eyes, Dean just appeared to be asleep. With a little imagination, Sam realized he could easily remove the hospital paraphernalia and imagine they were in one of their many hotel rooms resting after a particularly exhausting hunt.

But the doctor's voice soon brought Sam from his wishful thinking with a disturbing dose of reality. "We've given him a light sedative, just to help him sleep through the night. But there's no reason he shouldn't wake up by morning."

Sam's head jolted towards the sound of the doctor's voice, and he blinked in rapid succession before he fully grasped the words in his mind. "I need to be with him when he wakes up," he answered, taking on a defensive tone before he even knew if he would be shooed from the room. "I won't leave my brother."

Dr. Northrop nodded his head agreeably. "This is a private room. I see no reason why you can't stay with Dean, just so long as he doesn't seem to be agitated. I'll have one of the nurses bring a cot and a blanket in here for you."

Shaking his head defiantly, Sam pulled a chair up beside Dean's bed. "That won't be necessary," he argued. "I won't be sleeping tonight."

Before the doctor could open his mouth to protest, Sam spoke again, his hand now clasped tightly around Dean's. "He's my brother, Dr. Northrop. He's all I've got. I'm not leaving his side."

Accepting defeat, Dr. Northrop slipped his hands into the pockets of his lab coat and turned on his heel. "I just hope you'll reconsider getting some sleep," he pleaded, clinging to the last shred of power he had over the defiant young man. "Your brother's recovery depends on you being at one hundred percent."

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Sam honestly hadn't planned on sleeping, but when he opened his eyes to the sunlight streaming into the room without a clue as to when that had happened, he knew he'd lost his fight for consciousness sometime between four am and now. And if the memory lapse didn't tip him off, the puddle of drool he'd left on Dean's pillow after he'd curled up beside his brother late last night finished off his doubts.

Slowly, painfully, Sam uncurled his stiff limbs from their precarious position on the edge of the bed and slid back onto the chair he'd vacated earlier. A quick assessment of his brother told him that Dean was still asleep. He sighed, relieved that he hadn't missed the older man's moment of awakening.

Another hour after Sam woke up, Dean had yet to show any sign of life. The breakfast carts had rattled through long before, but no one stopped at his brother's room because Dean was presently being fed a disgusting brown colored liquid breakfast through a tube in his nose. Sam had watched longingly as the carts were rolled past the door, his stomach loudly protesting its unexpected fast. But Sam didn't dare leave Dean's side, and so he went hungry.

He'd purposefully planted himself on Dean's left side, remembering what the doctor had said about the potential for paralysis on the right. His hand now clenched tightly to his brother's left hand, his thumb massaging frantic circles into the callused skin as he waited, shoulders slumped, for Dean to wake up.

Sam was quiet, unsure what to say to his brother's unresponsive form, and positive Dean wouldn't want to be subjected to the emotional drivel even if he could think of something. But the longer he sat there, the harder it was to keep his emotions at bay, and Sam soon found himself annoyed at the moisture clouding his vision. Feeling somewhat safe, Sam finally let loose. The tears fell at an alarming rate, drenching his face in a matter of seconds and landing on his and Dean's intertwined hands soon after. _Dammit, Dean, this shouldn't be happening. Not to you. Not to us. _

Sam clenched tighter to his brother's hand, never considering his own strength, and he barely noticed when he felt the fingers squeeze back. The reaction was light, gentle, and at first Sam managed to convince himself that it was just automatic reflexes. But then the squeeze came again, firmer this time, and Sam looked up to Dean's face just as his eyelids fluttered open and then immediately shut again.

"Come on, Dean, open your eyes for me," Sam encouraged, jumping from his seat to hover over his brother's head, but never once loosening his grasp on Dean's hand. He quickly wiped away the tears that he'd allowed to flow when he thought no one would see, embarrassed to think that Dean might have already noticed them.

His lids fluttered open again, longer this time, and Dean looked through unfocused eyes for several seconds before shutting them again.

It was enough for Sam to decide a doctor was warranted, and he pressed frantically at the call button, his gaze never once wavering from Dean's face.

"That's it, big brother," he soothed eagerly. "Come on. Do it again. Open your eyes."

Dean's nurse, a hyper red-head with pouty lips and eyelashes that rivaled her patient's, burst through the door at the same moment Dean's eyes popped open again. Sam could swear he detected the familiar mischievous twinkle his brother always had when he went after a girl, but his eyes lost focus again before Sam could be sure. At least they stayed open this time; that was progress. And Sam and the nurse were soon fighting for Dean's attention.

Trying to concentrate on the commands Sam and the pretty red-head were asking of him proved a trying feat to Dean. He could hear what they were saying, and understand what they wanted, but somewhere between his brain and the requested actions the signals got crossed. He could tell by looking at them, especially at Sam's crestfallen face, that something wasn't right.

It didn't help matters when another man joined them, invading the space Sam stood in and pushing the younger boy from Dean's line of sight.

"Dean," the man boomed, shining a light directly into Dean's eyes as he spoke. "I'm Dr. Northrop; and this lovely nurse here is Renee. Can you tell me where you are?"

There was hesitation in Dean's eyes as he opened his mouth to speak, and then fear. Because the only thing coming from his mouth was a series of choppy utterances; non-verbals. "I- uhh...urgh-"

Sam returned within Dean's sight, hovering anxiously over him. His arms were crossed tightly across his chest in a protective stance, and his eyes darted nervously side to side and up and down. "Dean! Come on, man. You know where you are. Tell the doctor. Just say it."

_I'm trying, Sammy. I know where I am. This is obviously a hospital. _Putting all his focus into saying the one word, he finally succeeded in forming his throat around the soft hiss of the 'h' and then his lips turned the 'o' into a reality. But that was it. The rest of the word was lost in a void of wrong sounds and syllables; words that started with those two letters, but otherwise had no relation to the desired 'hospital.' "Hhhhhovvver," he pushed out, immediately shaking his head, discouraged. "H– olllli– day," he tried again, this time scrunching up his face in frustrated confusion. _Hospital! _his brain screamed internally. _Hospital! Hospital! Hospital! I'm in the fucking hospital. Why can't I say the damn word?_

Dr. Northrop's lips tightened, clearly unnerved by the situation. It was hard enough to see a seventy year old man go through the debilitation a stroke caused, but to see an otherwise healthy twenty six year old, in the prime of his life, struggling through the resulting symptoms just about broke his heart. What good was being a doctor if he couldn't prevent these things from happening?

The doctor's hand went gently to Sam's shoulder, the action telling the younger brother to back off. "He needs you to stay calm," the man insisted before turning his attention back to his patient. Spreading his arms, one on each side of Dean's body, he slipped two fingers of each hand into Dean's palms. "Son, can you squeeze my fingers for me?"

Dean bared down, painfully grasping the doctor's fingers with his left hand and the doctor smiled. He withdrew those fingers, shaking them to regain some of the feeling Dean had effectually removed. "That's some grip you've got there," Dr. Northrop enthused. "Now go ahead and do the same with your right hand."

_I am!_ Dean wanted to scream. But the words just wouldn't come out, and his hand wouldn't respond. He shifted his neck, looking down at the fingers of his right hand that were curled loosely around the doctor's middle and pointer fingers. Just as he'd done with speaking, he focused all his energy on that one appendage, willing it to move, willing it to squeeze the doctor's fingers as had been requested of him. _Oh God, what's wrong with my hand? Why won't it move?_

As Dean's breath quickened, he felt Sam's hand fall to his shoulder, trying unsuccessfully to comfort his brother. "Doc, he's freakin out here," Sam noted. "What the hell is going on?"

Instead of answering, the doctor held up a hand. "I need to finish these tests." Moving to the foot of the bed, Dr. Northrop lifted the sheets covering Dean's feet and legs. "Dean, I want you to nod your head if you feel this, OK?"

Dean nodded immediately, relieved that he was able to finally comply with one of the doctor's requests. _Go for it, Doc._

Holding his hand out expectantly, Dr. Northrop accepted the tool Renee placed in his palm and then aimed it at the bottom of Dean's foot. To Sam, the metal contraption seemed like some sort of medieval torture device with it's toothed circular blade spinning in its socket. He tensed, preparing himself to take down the doctor if he dared use that thing to cut his brother's foot. But the device, as frightening as it looked, was actually very innocuous. Sam watched as the blade was applied to Dean's left heel and then spun upwards in a swift pull.

"Did you feel that, Dean?"

Dean nodded again, and Sam felt relief at the fact that his breathing was slowing again as he calmed down. He waited as the doctor switched feet, repeating the same action on Dean's right foot. But the results were hardly the same, and this time Dean responded to the doctor's question with a frustrated shake of his head as his heart monitor began to go crazy.

Knowing her place, Renee immediately took control of the situation, leaning over her patient and voicing sooting words to the obviously upset young man. She nodded her affirmation to the doctor as he led a protesting Sam from the room. "We'll be fine here."

"Sam, please come with me," he ordered. "We should talk."

"I can't leave him!" Sam insisted, trying to pull from the doctor's firm grasp. "He needs me."

Dr. Northrop continued to speak calmly, never ceasing his hold on Sam's wrist. "I assure you, Renee knows what she's doing. What your brother needs right now is for you to understand his situation."

With one final glance at Dean, and a reassuring, "I'll be right back," Sam reluctantly followed the doctor from the room as Dean continued to flail desperately in the bed.

"What the hell is going on with him?" Sam demanded, the minute the door had closed behind him. He nervously shifted from one foot to the other, back and forth, as his eyes continually shared time with the doctor and the lone window in Dean's door.

"Sam, we knew this was a possibility," Dr. Northrop insisted firmly, although the sincere apologetic tone in his voice was unmistakable. "You need to remain calm - if not for yourself, then at least do it for your brother."

Sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Sam allowed his focus to hold steady on the doctor. "OK. I'm calm. Now tell me what's going on with him? How much of this is permanent?"

Dr. Northrop crossed his arms, licking his lips before he opened them to speak. "Hopefully none of this will be permanent," he answered honestly. "We have wonderful therapists here, and as long as Dean is willing to work, he has the potential to regain normal abilities with time."

Sam nodded, encouraged but still obviously upset. "So what are we looking at? He can't move anything on his right side, and he can't speak. What other problems is he going to have?"

"The speech problem he's having is known as Expressive aphasia," Dr. Northrop explained. "Basically what's happening is that he knows what he wants to say, but he can't get the words to come out. Sometimes they'll come out as the wrong words, and other times he won't be able to make any sound at all. You know how you feel when you have a word on the tip of your tongue, and you can see it in your head and describe it, but you just can't get it out?"

Sam nodded, understanding flooding his mind as the doctor explained the condition.

Dr. Northrop smiled at Sam's realization and continued. "That's basically what Dean is experiencing right now. And there is some good news about the paralysis. I know you couldn't have seen it yourself, but I could feel Dean's right foot quiver when I was running the test. I don't believe he's completely paralyzed on his right side, but rather just extremely weak. It's a condition known as hemiparesis. He'll still need quite a bit of rehabilitation, but it's better than the alternative."

Slouching back against the wall, Sam sighed audibly. "So he's gonna be OK. At least eventually, right?"

The desperation in the young boy's eyes got the doctor in the depths of his heart. He smiled sympathetically at Sam, reaching his hand out gently and placing it on the boy's shoulder. "I honestly hope so," Dr. Northrop replied, voice thick with sincerity. "He's young, strong, in very good physical condition. If your brother can't pull out of this, I don't know who could."

"Thank you, doctor, for everything," Sam expressed, finally regaining some of the strength in his tone that Sam had lost through the terrifying nightmare of the past hours. "I think I'm going to go back to my brother now." He turned unsteadily on his heel, hesitating at the door handle before plastering a smile on his face and pushing the door open.

Dean lay quietly in the hospital bed now, the motorized head lifted to a thirty degree angle so he could stare blankly at the smooth white walls instead of the patterned white ceiling. He didn't look up when Sam walked back in; didn't even blink in response to his younger brother's presence. The silence allowed Sam a few additional seconds to gather his thoughts, and he took them willingly before forcing his feet, one after the other, forward, towards Dean. Renee was just finishing up with her patient as Sam moved in on them. Like the doctor, she placed a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder as she made to leave, smiling sympathetically at the young man as she passed him. He flinched, already annoyed at the all too familiar gesture and wondering how many more times he would have to endure the looks and reactions of sympathy toward him; wondering how long it might be before he snapped.

Clearing his throat, Sam appeared in Dean's field of vision. "We need to talk," he said softly, lowering himself to the bed and settling his hand against Dean's chest. He didn't wait for a response, knowing it would never come, and proceeded to tell his brother what the doctor had told him. "Dean...you um...you had a stroke last night." Sam closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, relieved that the worst of the declaration was out, but still firm in his knowledge that the conversation was far from over.

His eyes opened immediately again as he felt Dean's body shudder and he looked down at his brother's face to see the first tear slide unbidden down the older hunter's cheek. Sam could detect the frustration Dean was experiencing as he raised his left hand to swipe at the offending moisture, knowing instinctually that Dean had first tried to raise his right hand and failed. His right side was the dominant side, and it now no longer worked.

Dean opened his mouth, wanting to speak. To curse. To yell at Sam and the doctor, even the pretty little nurse. But all that came out was an angry, garbled scream that sounded nothing like English. That made him even more upset, knowing that his thoughts were trapped in limbo somewhere between his mind and his voice, and he lashed out, hitting Sam squarely in the gut with his clenched left fist. He hadn't planned on hitting his brother, and the action had actually taken Dean by surprise, but it was the only way he could convey his emotions. He wasn't sorry he'd done it.

Flinching, but holding steady against his brother's reaction, Sam stared down the older hunter. "Dean, it's alright!" Sam insisted, placing his hands firmly on his brother's shoulders. "Look at me Dean!"

Glistening eyes turned pointedly away from Sam, both embarrassed at his inability to keep the tears controlled and his immense desire to avoid a lecture. But he held back any more punches, lowering his hand back to the bed in defeat.

"Fine." Sam said firmly. "Don't look at me. I'm still going to talk."

_At least you _can_ talk,_ Dean thought angrily, clenching his left fist around a wad of blanket. _I can't even say my own fucking name._ He closed his eyes tightly, but it didn't stop Sam from insisting on his nagging confrontation, and he wasn't able to drown out the sound.

"I know this has to be incredibly hard on you–" Sam began

_You're damn fucking right_. Dean closed his eyes tighter, biting his lower lip as it began trembling in reaction to the chick flick moment Sam was insisting on creating.

"–and I can't even imagine what must be going through your head right now. But Dean, you have to believe that this is all going to be OK. We're going to fight this with everything we have - both of us - and you're going to beat it. Dr. Northrop said there's a very good chance that you can make a full recovery."

_Screw Dr. Northrop! Screw you!_

"Dean, please," Sam whined, squeezing his brother's hand tightly and tugging on it just enough to convey his desire for the man to look at him. "Don't leave me to fight this alone."

A small sigh emerged from the back of Dean's throat and he finally complied with Sam's request, slowly turning his head to look at his brother. He furrowed his brow, concentrating hard as his mouth began to form. "Aaaaa– I...ffffind–" Dean shook his head, discouraged but not defeated, and then tried again. "Ffffight...t...t...too."

The victory wasn't enough to prompt happiness or even relief from the difficult patient, but Sam was beyond ecstatic at Dean's accomplishment and he didn't let the moment pass unnoticed. His mouth widened into a broad smile as he leaned over his brother, precariously close to his face. "Dean, you did it! You said what you needed to say!" he exclaimed, as though praising a puppy for sitting. "That's awesome."

But all Dean could think of was how close Sam face was to his own, and how much he wished his brother had considered proper hygiene in the past hour or two. _Dude, embrace a toothbrush,_ he thought, grimacing as Sam continued to spout his praises.


	3. Chapter 3

**I don't own Dean, Sam, or anything seemingly affiliated with Supernatural, however the story is a product of my own imagination. **

A/N: So, I went back and watched all of the previous episodes before watching the season finale, and I discovered, in Route 666 that Dean's old girlfriend was named Cassie, too. I'm surprised no body called my attention to this yet, but I'm calling attention to it now, and making a disclaimer that it's purely coincidental and the two Cassie's are in no way related to one another. Just had to make that clear.

_Oh. My. God. I can't believe the season is over. Tonight was bittersweet - I wanted so badly to see the season finale, but I'm not sure I'm liking the having to wait until next season to find out what happens. I suppose there will be a lot of quality speculation fics popping up now, though, so I'll just have to settle for reading those. Anyway, enough about the show - here's the next installment of this story. Hope you enjoy._

----------------------------

Exhaustion overtook Dean soon after they finished their conversation, and Sam finally allowed himself to leave the room. Dean was far from OK, but at least Sam knew he'd live to see another day. Now Sam had to worry about his own ass. His stomach growled loudly as he slipped from the room, closing the door as quietly as he possibly could. But he knew better than to give in to its demands until he'd taken care of the next task. He had to go back to the bar and get the car.

Sam made his way down the hall to the nurses station, figuring they would be his best bet for a phone number to the taxi station, and began wracking his brain at the sight waiting for him at the large desk. A skinny blond stood casually at the desk, leaning against it as she spoke to one of the nurses. Beside her, one hand draped loosely over top of it, was a stack of stuff, and it didn't take Sam long to first recognize the laptop and leather jacket, and then the girl. She was the same girl Dean had been flirting with at the bar the night before, and she looked up eagerly as Sam approached.

"Oh, hi!" she exclaimed the minute she noticed Sam, sliding her treasures back into her arms and abandoning her post at the nurse's station. "I was just trying to find you guys, but the nurse wasn't being very helpful. You left some stuff at the bar when you guys left last night." Her tone was blase, conversational, as though Dean and Sam had simply called it quits for the evening instead of having left in a flurry of lights and sirens, and Sam immediately added that to the list of items he found annoying about her. He'd only known this girl for a matter of minutes and he already disliked her, but Dean had apparently seen something he liked, so Sam tried to be nice.

Taking Dean's jacket and his computer from the girls arms, he forced himself to smile appreciatively at her. "Thanks for bringing these to the hospital. My brother love's this jacket." He said it dismissively, hoping she would understand his desire for her to leave. But the hint was lost on the girl, and instead she became more curious.

"So how is he...your brother, I mean. Is he going to be alright?"

Sam shrugged, wanting nothing less than to share Dean's medical troubles with the prying blond. If he had to make a guess, he assumed Dean wouldn't want her to know any more than he didn't want to tell her. And so he decided evasion was the better tactic for the time being. "Listen, I uh...I was just about to leave. I need to go get our car from the bar before my brother finds out I dared leave it behind. So if you don't mind–"

"I could take you over there," she offered, her voice far too upbeat for the limited amount of sleep Sam had gotten the night before.

He stammered, already making his way to the nurses station again and ready to ask for the number he needed. "Thanks," he replied, trying to sound as sincere as his shot nerves would allow. "But I can get there myself. I appreciate the offer though."

She stepped closer, obviously not willing to take no for an answer. "You got a better plan?" she demanded.

"I'm just going to call a taxi."

The girl chuckled, already pulling her car keys from her purse. "Honey, the taxi's in this town are unreliable at best. You could be waiting an hour or more before someone decides to swing by here and pick you up. And if you dare not be waiting by the curb, they'll just drive on by. Come on, just let me take you back to the bar. I don't bite."

Sam grudgingly nodded and began following her down the hall. "Alright, let's go."

They were halfway to the car before another realization struck him. "I don't know your name," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Cassie," she voiced over her shoulder, walking brusquely to the blue BMW convertible parked several spaces away from any other cars. She hit the button on her remote and the car woke up with a shrill double blip as the alarm was disarmed.

_Rich chick. No wonder she's so self involved._ Sam lowered himself into the passenger side of the car, folding his long legs up under the dash. "I'm Sam," he found himself offering out of habit.

She winked at him. "I know. Dean mentioned you last night. You're the smart one."

Sam eyed her suspiciously. "That's not really what he said," he prodded.

Cassie shook her head honestly. "Actually, I think his exact words were something like 'that computer nerd over there is my geek brother, Sam.' But I could tell he's proud of you. You can't hide that type of emotion in your voice."

There was a moment's hesitation as Sam contemplated changing his opinion of the girl, but she was quick to bring him back to the original thought as she crooned with blatant curiosity. "So what happened to Dean last night? I mean, that was just totally weird. Is he OK?"

Sam shrugged again, contemplating pretending he simply hadn't heard her despite the fact that she could easily figure out that he was actually ignoring her. Deciding against that plan, he went for a much simpler one. "It's personal. My brother's a pretty private guy; I don't think he'd appreciate me telling perfect strangers his medical problems."

She looked insulted, gripping the steering wheel tighter in her hands. "I think he'd be OK with me knowing," she insisted sweetly, trying to hide deeper feelings. "We connected last night. I think we've got something going."

It was all Sam could do not to laugh in her face at the naive observation. As it was, Sam found himself turning toward the window and letting out a small hiss of a snicker before turning back to Cassie. "Look...Cassie...," Sam hesitated, trying to be gentle despite his desire to roll his eyes. "Whatever happened between you and Dean last night was never meant to go beyond dawn this morning."

She let out a sharp laugh, refusing to believe that last night had been more than a one night stand. There was something about her response that made Sam realize she wasn't used to being the dumpee, and she sure as hell wasn't familiar with getting the short end of a twelve hour tryst. "Apparently you don't know your brother as well as you think you do," she cooed. "He asked me to come with him on this road trip you guys are taking...said the back seat was all mine if I wanted it."

Sam snorted, no longer able to keep his amusement to himself. "You think you're the first girl he's ever offered to bring along for the ride? Trust me, Cassie, it's the same thing in every town we go to. You're not the first girl he's ever picked up at a bar, and you're definitely not the la–"

He stopped short on the word, fighting against his emotions for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. _Would she be Dean's last? Would Dean ever be well enough to feel comfortable picking up girls in a bar again? Because, knowing his brother, Dean would never subject himself to the stares that were bound to be aimed at him if he was anything less than the perfect specimen of a man he saw himself as. _

"We're here," Cassie announced dryly, bringing the car to a jolting stop beside the Impala, now the only car left in the bar's parking lot.

Snapping out of his brief moment of mourning, Sam collected his stuff and bolted from the car. "Thanks for the ride, Cassie," he said, again out of politeness more than sincerity. "Take care of your self."

She nodded, stone faced, and then peeled out of the parking lot before Sam had even tested the lock in the Chevy. She was pissed, totally insulted by, in her mind, the lies Sam had just told her.

Sam shook his head sadly, wondering how Dean managed to find the head cases he brought home with him so often. He watched her take off, silently wishing the girl good riddance, before climbing into the car and heading back to the hospital, first stopping at a drive-through for his complaining stomach. He should have gone straight to the hospital.

A sinking feeling of dread encompassed Sam as he reached Dean's room, and it wasn't alleviated by the high-pitched female voice floating through the cracked door. Grabbing the knob, Sam burst through the door, immediately throwing the fast-food bag on the nearest surface.

"Cassie! What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, arms crossed angrily across his bulging chest.

She looked up, smiling sweetly at Sam. "I came by to visit Dean," she replied, her voice a combination of innocence and nefariousness. Her head turned, shooting adoring eyes at the man in the bed, and patted his knee affectionately. "He's not being nearly as talkative as he was the other night, though," she teased.

Dean rolled his eyes blatantly in her direction and then whipped his head around to look at Sam, eyes quickly taking on a look of desperation. Without needing to say a word, Dean conveyed to Sam his desires. _Get this wacko the hell out of my room. Fucking help me._

Sam sprang to action, crossing the room and grabbing Cassie roughly by the arm. "You just can't take a hint, can you?" he snapped.

She jerked back, springing her arm free of Sam's grasp and turning back to Dean. "You and me...we've got something good going here," she cooed, taking his right hand back in her own. "Tell him. Tell your brother that you invited me on your road trip."

_Who the hell does this bitch think she is? God, get the hell off me. _Dean wished desperately that she'd gripped the left hand so he could jerk it pointedly from her sweaty grasp, but as it was, he was fated to endure the touch. _Thank God I can blame my lack of judgement last night on a stroke, because I think I'd have to kill myself if I picked her while in my right mind. _

Sam reached out again, his hand gripping tightly to Cassie's bare shoulder. "I think you need to leave," he said through clenched teeth, loudly adding, "Now!"

"Not until I hear it from your brother."

Dean seethed, beyond annoyed by this obnoxious chick and becoming more and more exhausted as the ridiculously played conversation continued. More than anything, he wanted to laugh in her face. He wanted to stand up, saunter over to the door, and give her the send off she very much deserved. But the most he could muster was a smug smile. Carefully, deliberately, he reached the left hand across his body and pried her fingers loose from his motionless right hand.

_Leave, dammit. Just go!_ He wanted to scream it, but he didn't trust his voice, and he didn't dare attempt to say anything that could possibly result in a garbled mass of syllables. Until he was certain the words would form properly, Sam was the only one who would hear him talk.

"Well, what's it going to be?" Cassie demanded, clearly unfazed by Dean's attempt to remove her from his person. "Do you want me to leave or not?"

_For crying out loud woman, how dense are you? _Dean glared at her and, gesturing with his left hand, mouthed the word 'go.' It took Dean by surprise, amazed that his mouth had cooperated enough to form the tiny word, but relieved nonetheless.

Cassie stared at him, mouth agape, totally thrown by the response. "You don't mean it," she cried, sounding more like a five year old whose favorite toy has just been taken away than the twenty-something, supposedly educated woman that she actually was. "We were going to go road-tripping together. You said–"

At the look of desperation from Dean, Sam interrupted her. "He _said_ that he wants you to go. I don't know what kind of wacked out delusions you convinced yourself of in the half hour conversation you two had last night, but even on the remote chance that my brother _did _mean the invitation he extended to you, everything has changed now. And you, Cassie, are not a part of this new equation. Now you can either leave or I will forcibly remove you from this room - it's your choice.

"Honey, you don't know what you're giving up. You'll be sorry." She huffed loudly, shooting one final, desperate glance at Dean before storming from the room.

"Boy, you sure know how to pick 'em, dontcha bro," Sam joked as the door slammed shut.

Dean didn't know whether to laugh or cry as he rolled his head across the pillow to shoot a grateful look in Sam's direction. His speech slurred. "Shhhhhheeeeezzzz c– c– crap–" Dean shook his head in frustration again, but he wasn't one to give up easily. "Cr...azzzeeeee." he finally spat out, sinking back against the bed, tired from the ordeal. _She's fucking insane, is what she is. What the hell was I thinking?_

Sam laughed. "I think crap is just as good a description as crazy." He playfully punched Dean in the arm, giving his brother a stern, knowing look. "But I also think you should start doing background checks on your women before you invite them into your bed. It'll save you a lot of hassle the next time."

Giving Sam a single fingered salute, Dean nodded. And then his eyes wandered longingly to the brown paper bag he'd noticed Sam walk in with earlier. The bottom was now soaked completely through with grease and he grinned eagerly. Greasy, fatty, artery clogging, nothing but unhealthy. Just the way he liked it.

Not much got by Sam, and this was no exception. He was quick to catch the yearning expression his brother cast at the bag of cooling fast food and he immediately crossed the room and snatched it up. "You hungry?"

Dean nodded, and Sam found it amazing how a greasy burger could bring such a sparkle to his brother's previously dull eyes. "I figured you would do just about anything to get out of eating the hospital food. Cheeseburger and fries alright with you?"

Sam didn't wait for Dean to respond, knowing full well that the food would be fine. Reaching into the bag, he unearthed the remaining burger and fries, his own already consumed on the ride from the fast food joint to the hospital, and began to unwrap the sandwich. But Dean was impatient, and he had no desire to let Sam help him.

With a long sigh, Dean reached out his good hand and motioned for Sam to hand over the still mostly wrapped sandwich, opting for motions instead of words to convey his desires. He glared at Sam when his little brother protested, wiggling his fingers impatiently. _Just give me the damn burger, Sam. I'm not a damned invalid. _

Reluctantly, Sam plopped the desired food in Dean's outstretched hand, and set the fries on the bedside table, still in his brother's reach. Dean grinned wickedly at Sam, gloating at his small victory. But the smile soon left his face as he realized what Sam had been protecting him from. Struggle. Disaster. Defeat.

It wasn't that Dean couldn't unwrap the burger with one hand. He could, and he did. The problem wasn't the act itself, but rather the subsequent mess the act created. At first, he forgot about his motionless right arm and spent several seconds trying to lift it to the burger before accepting, once again, the fact that it just wouldn't move. He tried to hide his frustration as he slapped the burger down onto his lap and began unwrapping the paper with his good hand. It came away easily and he sneered at Sam. _So there._ But that was the end of the simplicity.

The burger was overstuffed, just the way Dean liked it usually, but today it made eating about as easy as taking down a demon unarmed. As he picked up the burger ketchup squished out the back, sliding down his wrist and he growled inwardly. Turning his wrist toward his face, Dean licked up the gloppy red mess as mustard and chopped onion plopped from the other side of the burger down onto his lap. Dean made a face, a combination of frustration and determination. He chose to ignore the mustard and, instead, geared for his first bite. His teeth sank greedily into the burger, and he came away with a mouthful of meat and bread as the bottom bun slipped a couple inches along the hamburger patty, allowing several more globs of condiment to fall down his wrist and onto the sheet below.

Having barely any control over his voice, Dean let out a high pitched anguished whine that sounded far too girly for his own liking as he slammed the burger back onto the open wrapper, discouraged from finishing it. Sam reached hesitantly for the burger, unsure as to how well received his help would be. The answer came as Dean batted Sam's hand away angrily.

"Come on, man. You've got to eat," Sam protested, making another attempt at grabbing the abandoned food. "You can't go on a hunger strike just 'cause this gets a little messy."

_Watch me. _Dean rolled his eyes as he folded the wrapper back around the burger, containing the mess before slapping it into Sam's palm with a resounding thwack and rustle of paper. "T– t– toooo mmmmesssssy," he slurred, again satisfied only by the fact that the words had miraculously found their way out of his uncooperative mouth, but still hating the way his speech sounded.

There are some battles worth fighting, and some better to just let go. Sam let go of this one, knowing he would never get Dean to finish the burger. It was one of his brother's favorite foods, so if he was giving it up Sam knew Dean was firm in his decision. He moved on, deciding it better to force _any_ food rather than _specific _food, and pushed the fries on his stubborn brother. "These aren't messy," he encouraged. "And you have to eat."

Dean relented, reaching for the first straw of salty goodness and stuffed it into his mouth. He licked his lips in satisfaction, once again putting up the wall he'd worked so many years to erect. He wasn't about to let Sam know just how much all this was getting to him. But the damage was already done. Dean was a broken man; he knew it and Sam knew it. And little by little Dean was losing his dignity.

_Alright, so I'm not too sure about this chapter, simply because I haven't decided if I'm keeping Cassie in the story or not, so I may very well have wasted an entire chapter on her. But the idea came to me, and I had to write it. It just seems natural that Dean would eventually have a girl stalk him - and I modeled her after myself, because I would love to put in some quality Dean stalking time. Or Jensen stalking time, for that matter. Anyway, I'm going to put her on the back burner for now, but keep her in mind because she'll probably show up in a future chapter. For now we'll call this a filler chapter. Look for some quality therapy struggles in the upcoming chapter. And don't forget to review! It makes my life worth living. Hehe. _


	4. Chapter 4

**I don't own Dean, Sam, or anything seemingly affiliated with Supernatural, however the story is a product of my own imagination. **

_Alright, so I guess this was a longer time coming than I originally expected. Sorry bout that. You have no idea the craziness that has been my extended weekend. I'm not entirely sure this went the way I wanted it to, but hopefully you all will like it. Sometimes I feel like I drone on with tedious hospital jargon, so I try to cut it back as best I can but then I feel like things are left out. Hope this provides a happy medium between the two. Let me know your opinion, so I know how to continue with the technical stuff. Enjoy. Hopefully I'll get the next chapter up sooner then I got this one up. And as always - read and review!_

Fear. Nervousness. Anxiety. Apprehension. Dread. Anyone of those words could have been used to describe Dean's feelings at that present moment, but the only feeling he allowed Sam to view was indifference. Yet it wasn't truly a feeling he currently owned; only one he'd become all too good at faking. And one that, in the upcoming weeks, he would refine and master because humor was no longer an option. Humor, when one was voiceless, was about as useful as beauty when one couldn't see.

Not long after the cheeseburger incident, Dean had decided he didn't want to try talking anymore. And if he couldn't talk, he'd be damned if he was going to sit idly by as Sam prattled on by himself. So several minutes after he'd gone silent Dean lifted two fingers up to his lips and moved them across in a zipping motion, finishing the effort by pointing a finger in Sam's direction. Sam got the hint without much effort and immediately, albeit awkwardly, shut his mouth.

Silence followed; that deafening silence that comes from having so much to say and yet nothing to say at all. Shifting awkwardly in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position, Sam sighed several times. He snuck hidden glance after hidden glance in Dean's direction, wishing his brother would look back at him. Wishing he would smile at him. Dean was always the caretaker; the reassurer. And more than anything he needed Dean to tell him everything was gong to be OK. But Dean just couldn't do that for him; not yet.

For the last ten minutes Dean had had the remote aimed at the TV, robotically flipping through the hospital's limited supply of channels in search of something, anything, that didn't involve sappy love scenes or over-eager game show contestants. But he wasn't having much luck, and he was about to toss the remote across the room when Dr. Northrop slipped through the door.

"Dean," he greeted warmly, crossing the room to stand directly in his patient's line of sight. With a quick glance to the left he added, "Sam."

While Dean barely even acknowledged the doctor's presence, Sam replied with a quick nod of the head in the doctor's direction and waited patiently for the man to tell them why he was there. The man stayed only long to perform a brief exam on his patient and then inform him that therapy would be starting today. Physical therapy was to begin within the hour, and later that afternoon he would get a visit from a speech therapist. Dean offered a slight nod, just enough to tell his doctor that he understood. With a satisfied grin and a reassuring pat on the knee, Dr. Northrop left the room.

And now they sat, almost an hour later as they waited for Dean's first therapy session to begin. Dean didn't know if he was more nervous for what _would_ happen or for what _wouldn't_ happen, but he knew he was far from eager to find out one way or the other. The television had been turned off just after Dr. Northrop left, no longer providing even the meager bit of comfort it had provided before because, essentially, all it gave was an ill-timed countdown to d-day, or d-hour.

Neither brother could contain their surprise when a petite, dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties strode through the door, exuding confidence far beyond her barely one-hundred and five pound frame. "Hi there," she spoke cheerfully, offering a quick grin to Sam before placing all her focus on Dean. "I'm Lila, your hospital appointed physical therapist. You must be Dean."

Dean regarded the hand she offered with irritation. _I can't fucking move my hand. How the hell do you expect me to shake yours?_ As she persisted, thrusting the appendage closer to him, he opened his mouth, ready to attempt words. Sam spoke for him.

"I don't know if you read his chart," the younger brother intervened, trying to hide his doubt at the therapists competence, "but he's paralyzed on his right side. He won't be able to shake your hand."

Lila held up her other hand to stop Sam from going any further, never taking her eyes from her patient. "He's got two hands," she explained, as much for Dean's benefit as for Sam's. "If one doesn't work, you use the other. There's no law that says you can't greet a person with the left hand if the right is encumbered." She wiggled her fingers again, reminding Dean that the hand still sat there in front of his face.

Rolling his eyes, Dean slapped his left hand within Lila's right, but made her do the rest. And when she finally released it he allowed the hand to flop back onto the bed with a hollow thud. _Are you happy there now? Therapy session over?_

Hands clasped eagerly in front of the cheerful brunette and she disappeared from the room without a word, returning seconds later pushing an empty wheelchair. "First thing's first," she announced, ignoring the look of disdain Dean cast upon the chair. "We need to get you down to Physical Therapy."

Self-consciousness welled up within Dean's entire being as he looked at the black wheelchair, knowledge of what it symbolized hanging over him like a dark cloud. Some things were worth speaking up about, and this was one of them. "Nnnnn– nnnn– nnnooo wwww– wwweeed– wwwaaaaaay." He slurred defiantly, shaking a determined head at the offending object.

This wasn't the first time Lila had had a patient refuse the transportation, and she held firm at Dean's resistance, pushing the chair closer toward Dean's bed. "Necessary evil," was all she offered before setting the brakes and lowering the rail on the side of the bed. "You want to get better, you've got to make some sacrifices. This is one of them."

Glaring at her, Dean struggled to sit up further. "Wwww– wwwwwwaaaalk," he insisted. _I can fucking walk! _

Sympathy filled her eyes as she shook her own head just as firmly as he had. "Maybe down in PT, with the necessary equipment, but not here. Not now. You lack the strength."

"Dean just listen to her," Sam pleaded. "She's trying to help you."

But he continued to be stubborn, shaking his head defiantly as he repeated, "Wwwaaalk. I wwwalk."

Locating a small spot on the bed beside Dean, Lila sat down and locked eyes with her patient. "I'll make you a deal," she offered, not waiting to see his reply. "If you get into the wheelchair to go down to therapy, I promise we'll try walking before I bring you back up. We have special equipment to make it easier on you, and there are more people to help in case you fall."

_I won't fall, dammit. I don't need help._ But somehow, something she said got through to Dean. At the very least, he realized that his only other option would be never getting out of the bed at all. Clenching his jaw tightly and pursing his lips Dean nodded.

Lila smiled, satisfied. "I knew you'd see things my way. Alright then, lets go."

Hovering nervously, Sam watched as Lila took charge. She talked as she worked, ensuring that both boys knew everything she was going to do before it was done. The covers were pulled back, revealing the rest of Dean's hospital gown covered body and bare legs. He could see Dean cringe as he looked down at his one unmoving leg, the final link to normal life yanked viciously from his grasp. He seemed to wiggle the other one more than usual, as though trying to make up for its counterpart, or maybe to prove to himself that it was still working.

After raising the head of the bed to its full upright position, Lila helped Dean slide his legs over the side of the bed and then braced herself, arms at the ready, to transfer him into the wheelchair. But he stopped her, holding one hand in the air as he surveyed his own appearance and then looked over at Sam. Mouth formed and at the ready Dean fought to emit the necessary sound, but this time he just couldn't make it come out. In his mind he knew what he wanted to say and he screamed it over and over, hoping something would trigger the short circuit that ran from his mind to his mouth. But only garbled sounds spewed from his mouth and he finally gave up, frustrated. Instead, he reached toward his brother, tugging anxiously at Sam's jeans and then pointing to his own bare legs.

Sam had been watching Dean curiously, waiting patiently for the older man to express his desire. His heart ached as he watched Dean struggle to find and form words a three year old should have known, wishing there was more he could do. More than anything, he wished this was a demon. A demon he could fight. A demon he could kill. But this was man-made, a human affliction that couldn't be stopped with a silver bullet or rock salt or even an exorcism. The only thing Sam could do was sit back and wait, and offer what little bit of understanding and compassion his brother his brother would allow. "You want pants?" Sam questioned, immediately understanding the older man's request.

His brother nodded emphatically, trying desperately to hide his aguish over not being able to speak the simple word. Sam crossed to the dresser where Dean's duffle bag sat, still unpacked on top, and rifled through it. All Dean owned were jeans, and Sam knew enough to know they wouldn't work for PT. The only thing in the bag that could be considered acceptable was a pair of boxer style running shorts that Dean usually slept in. He retrieved them, making a mental note to buy some sweat pants as soon as he could, and presented them to Dean who quickly shook his head stubbornly and pointed again to Sam's jeans.

Lila intervened. "You can't wear jeans to physical therapy, Dean. You need to have unlimited movement, and jeans are just too restrictive. I'm sorry, but it's going to have to be those shorts or nothing at all. Your choice."

Now thoroughly pissed off, Dean reached out with his good hand and snatched the shorts from Sam's hand. _Give me those damn shorts. Let's just get this thing over with, dammit._ But even as he tried to act tough, to regain some semblance of his old life, he realized that there was no way he was getting the pants on all by himself. He got them as far as his thighs before he had to accept that it was the farthest he could get them on his own and he looked pitifully at Sam who immediately understood his needs and stepped forward to finish the job without so much as a half smile to tease his brother. It wasn't a laughing matter.

Dean may have been the shorter brother, but he was far from short. And his body was one giant mass of muscle. He easily outweighed the petite therapist by more than seventy-five pounds. As Lila slid her arms under Dean's armpits nervous eyes immediately made contact with Sam's. Both boys were thinking the same thing, and it didn't take Dean long to convey his message to his brother. Sam stepped forward, hovering as close as he could possibly get, his own arms outstretched and ready to catch his brother if necessary.

Lila laughed. "Boys, I'm stronger than I look," she assured them, interlocking her fingers against Dean's back. "You have nothing to be worried about."

Still, Sam didn't back off fully. His arms remained ready to spring, but he lowered them slightly. On three, Lila lifted her patient to his feet, taking most of his weight, but allowing Dean a small second to test out his left leg. It proved strong, steady, and Dean couldn't help but smile despite the deadweight hanging on the opposite side. _See, I told you I could stand. _

He shrugged and wiggled, attempting to free himself from Lila's firm grasp, and surprised when she did loosen her hold just a little bit. Just enough to show him that he wasn't ready to be released, because the minute she let go he lost his balance. Feeling himself drop his mind filled with fear and a whole new thought streamed through his mind. _Oh God, don't let me fall. _

Strong arms caught him with relative ease and Dean relaxed as he was lowered the rest of the way into the wheelchair. He turned to Sam, ready to thank his brother for saving him from the humiliation of falling, but was shocked to see that Sam didn't have a hold on him at all. It had all been Lila's doing. _Damn, she really is stronger than she looks. Chick is ripped. _Looking back at his physical therapist, Dean tried to catch her eye. He wasn't sure why; truly didn't know if he would prefer to ream her out for nearly dropping him or thank her for giving him what he'd wanted - a chance to test his sea legs. But she didn't look at him, instead focusing all attention on settling his right leg on the foot rest and then wheeling him from the room.

xxxxxx

Therapy was hard. Harder than Dean had ever expected. And it had only been fifteen minutes. He was still laying on the padded table that Lila had transferred him onto minutes after rolling him into the massive room that took up one third of the entire sixth floor of the hospital. Sam still paced nervously in the observation room where Lila had ordered him as they entered the room, telling him as politely as possible that he would only be in the way if he came any further. She'd gone over the game plan with Dean as soon as he was on the table, explaining that they would start with Range of Motion exercises (ROM's) first. The exercises worked his non-responsive muscles on the right side, bending them and stretching them in every direction they would move to keep them limber and ready to move on their own the minute they were ready. From there, they would move on to the weights where they would work the left side, maintaining and even increasing the muscle mass so Dean would be able to compensate for his weaker side. And finally, she promised him, that if he still felt ready she would gear him up and let him try walking.

They'd barely even begun the ROM's and Dean was already exhausted but he would never admit that to anyone else. Hell, he could barely admit it to himself. And as Lila barked orders at him, demanding he try to push back as she worked his leg, shoving his bent knee back toward his chest, one hand underneath the knee and the other pressing firmly against the arch of his foot, Dean tried his best to comply. Putting all his energy and focus into extending the muscles in his right leg, Dean let out a deep, gutteral howl. For all his effort, the foot moved only a fraction of an inch. But it moved, and despite the fact that he couldn't recreate the action immediately, it was enough to re-energize him.

"That was terrific, Dean!" Lila exclaimed, squeezing his left hand for encouragement. "Dr. Northrop said he'd noticed a slight tremble in your foot, but here's your proof. You're on your way."

He beamed, but the smile quickly evaporated as it shifted to sound determination. "Aaag– aaagainnnn," he insisted, motioning impatiently toward his leg.

"OK," Lila answered, happily willing to acquiesce to Dean's request as long as the man was willing to push himself. It was far better than the alternative, and for a while there she'd feared the alternative. "So let's try this again. Push against me. Fight me, Dean."

And he did, pushing with all his strength against her hand, time after time. The results were never better than the first response, but never worse either. He had just enough strength to fight the push by a matter of millimeters each time, but it gave him hope.

Eventually, after another ten minutes of ROM exercises, Lila put a stop to the motions, ready to move on to the next step in the therapy. She helped Dean back into the chair and pushed him to the free weights, immediately planting a ten pound weight in his left hand and ordering him to show her what he had.

Dean scoffed. _Ten pounds? You think a lousy ten pounds is gonna put me down?_ A sly smile spread across the man's face and he put the weight down immediately and reached for the heaviest weight offered, easily curling the thirty pound weight to his shoulder in spite of his exhaustion. Pushing it came naturally to him; ignoring the screaming muscles and the triggers in his brain that told him a nap was desired. And one thing was for certain - he may have managed to move his foot the slightest of millimeters, but he still had a long way to go before he would be better and the only thing that would bridge that gap would be his pushing himself to the limit. He was going to do just that.

He refused to allow too much time to be wasted on building strength in the working limbs, convinced that it was far from necessary for the accomplished hunter to need additional work to tone his muscles. Apparently, Lila agreed with him, because she readily agreed to his sputtered request to try walking and he grinned again, planting in her mind the facade of his acceptance.

Impatience. More than anything right now, Dean felt impatience. Because it had been almost fifteen minutes since Lila had begun to get Dean ready to walk and he still wasn't on his feet yet. She'd disappeared for the first five minutes, leaving him alone to lament and worry about what he'd just brought upon himself. That fact that he'd nearly fallen from just standing back in his room wasn't lost on him, and he worried that he might not make it even one step before falling on his ass and making a complete and utter fool of himself in front of the roomful of therapists and other patients.

When she returned, her arms were laden down with a collection of equipment and she was followed by a man wearing dark blue scrubs. "Dean, this is Paul. He's going to help us out when we get you back on your feet. Alright?"

Dean nodded agreeably and then sat back to watch as the two of them went to work on preparing him for his journey. A stiff brace was fitted tightly on his leg and foot, the joints locked to prevent his ankle or knee from buckling. That in itself took another six minutes to ensure it was secure on his leg. A wide belt was tightened around his torso, and Lila explained that it served to help keep him upright. She and Paul would each grip a strap from the belt and could easily react if he lost his footing. And finally, Dean was wheeled to an empty section of floor, the chair planted squarely in front of a walker.

Contemplating another defiant 'no' at the thought of using a walker, Dean finally decided against it. So far, Lila had won every spat they'd had, and he knew logically that if she felt it necessary then it was absolutely necessary.

"Are you ready for this?" Lila asked, studying her patient's face as she waited for his reply, and Dean knew he had to make his answer believable despite his ever increasing apprehension.

Nodding firmly, Dean even managed to force a true smile, and Lila accepted it without blinking.

The walker was different; rigged to support his needs. The fact that he had no movement in his right arm meant he had no way of gripping the bar, but that didn't mean he could spare the additional balance. A metal post stuck up perpendicular to the right side bar and provided the base for a padded cradle meant for his arm.

He readied himself, grudgingly allowing Lila to slip her arms underneath his armpits, still convinced that he could do it all himself. Sighing, he listened as she counted - one...two...three - and then lifted him easily to his feet and helped him steady himself with the walker. His right arm rested limply in the cradle, and Dean couldn't help but feel that it wasn't even his. He could see it was attached to his shoulder, and there was no denying the additional stability he felt just by having it resting at the appropriate level to the rest of his body, but it might as well have been concrete for all the good it was doing him. The right leg stood pole straight because of the stiff brace, but Dean knew it would no doubt collapse without the overload of equipment covering it. His left side held strong, for now, but he feared lifting or even moving his left leg for fear the right wouldn't hold. His mind swirled out of control. Yellow spots danced in front of his eyes and bright flashes of light snapped purposefully all around him. He froze. He couldn't move; not forward or back, up or down. He was just suspended in limbo, terrified to make any rash decisions that could prove embarrassing, or detrimental.

And then a voice broke into his haze, offering him a lifeline to grab onto and hold for dear life. He took it, clutching the sound in his mind, reaching out and pulling it to his heart. Slowly, steadily, his breathing slowed and his mind began to clear. Eyes came into focus and Dean realized that he was sitting once again as three faces floated into view. Lila and Paul hovered over him, eyes serious as they monitored his breathing and heart rate. And there was Sam, smack dab in the middle, concern plastered all across his face. His hands held tightly to Dean's.

Dean looked up nervously. "Wwww– wwwhat h– hhh-"

"You had a panic attack," Sam provided, interrupting his brother before he was forced to struggle any more with the words. "One minute you were getting ready to try taking a step and the next you were down for the count. You alright there?"

Blank, unfocused eyes looked beyond Sam and the therapists, struggling for an answer, a reason why he'd suddenly freaked out at something he'd been begging for since he'd first met Lila.

"Dean!" Sam repeated, snapping his fingers in front of unfocused eyes and finally making them center on his face. "Dean, are you OK?"

His head bobbed hesitantly, almost questioningly, as though Dean himself didn't truly know if he was alright. "C– c– cannnn't," he said sadly, averting his eyes from the pitying, prying eyes that came at him from all angles.

"We'll try it again later," Sam assured him, hand placed gently on Dean's knee. "When you're stronger. Just be patient."

_What kind of a man can't even stand on his own two feet. What kind of a man can't even get out of his damn chair without help from some tiny little woman. Dammit, Lila has more control over my body than I do, and she's half my size. I'm no man. I'm a loser. A failure. _The pity party was in full swing, burrowing itself deep into Dean's psyche and he refused to look up. He refused to give Sam the reassurances his brother so desperately seemed to need despite his outward appearance of strength. Dean knew his little brother better than Sam knew himself, and he knew, without a doubt, that the boy was barely holding it together. But Dean was right there with him, broken inside as well as out. There was no way he could give comfort. He wasn't even willing to be neutral about the whole thing.

There was only one thing he could do for Sam, and it would have killed him if he wasn't already dead inside. Tear filled eyes finally looked up at the younger hunter, desperate, pleading. "G– g– go, Ssssssaaam. L– lllleeeeaf. Llllleeeeavvvvve."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Don't own the boys, don't own the show, but totally wish I did. **

_Hi guys! I'm sooo sorry this took me so long to get up. It's absolutely amazing what a forty hour work week and a sick dog does to my available writing time. I was hoping this chapter would be a little bit longer, but I wanted to get something up for you guys and this made for a good stopping point. Hope you enjoy. As always, thanks for all the wonderful reviews. I look forward to more of them! _

The Impala protested loudly as Sam opened it full out on the empty back roads. He fumed, taking wicked pleasure in the fact that, at more than 5000rpms, he was beyond abusing Dean's precious baby. Corners were taken squealing on two wheels, and he left several hundred feet of tire rubber on the road before the few stop signs that dared to pop up in his drive. When he finally stopped, parking the car in front of their motel several hours after he'd taken to the road, Sam could smell the distinct odor of burning clutch. But he didn't care. _Let Dean be pissed. Let Dean kill me, if he wants. At least it will mean he's doing more than wallowing in self pity. _

Slamming the door behind him, Sam entered the dilapidated motel room and immediately stomped to the bathroom. He turned on the water, setting the temperature to scalding, and climbed in, letting the sharp needles punish his body. Before he knew what he was doing, Sam's fist connected violently with the tiled shower wall. And then again. And again. The fourth hit cracked one of the tiles, and blended with the sound of cracking bone, but he ignored the physical pain. The emotional hurt had already consumed every spare thought Sam had. _Damn you Dean! God Damn you!_

It wasn't as though Sam had simply accepted Dean's order to leave. He'd fought it with everything he had in him. It had killed him to see Dean's lifeless eyes, devoid of any emotion, completely lost. And he'd hated hearing his brother's words, fragmented but still as strong as ever telling Sam to leave. He hadn't meant it. Not in the way Dean intended it to sound. He'd tried to be a martyr, tried to save Sam from having to watch him go through hell. He'd tried to protect Sam from the what if's and the maybe's. But Sam knew the truth. And the truth was that Dean was being just plain selfish. His concern wasn't for Sam; it was for himself. _He _didn't want Sam to watch him go through the tedious therapy that may or may not get him back on his feet. _He_ didn't want to deal with the pressure Sam put on him, however inadvertently, to regain his voice. _He_ just didn't want to share the pain.

Sam had begged, pleaded even, for Dean to take it back. He couldn't believe how far he'd stooped in order to stay at Dean's side, but the effort had been in vain. And when Dean couldn't convince Sam by himself he'd allowed himself another panic attack, hyperventilating until his lips were tinged blue and his eyes were glassy. Lila and Paul had raced Dean back to his room and a team of doctors and nurses huddled around him, feeding him oxygen and taking his stats until the cause of the problem was detected. A sleeping aid was slipped into Dean's IV as Dr. Northrop pulled an anxious Sam out into the hallway.

"You're going to have to leave for a while," Dr. Northrop told him apologetically. "I don't know why, but your presence seems to be agitating him right now and we just can't have that. His brain is still weak from the stroke. We just can't take the chance for recurrences."

"Doc, you don't understand," Sam had protested, his eyes wild with desperation. "He's not agitated. It's all an act. He thinks he's doing me a favor, but he's wrong. You have to let me talk to him. You have to let me set him straight."

The doctor had placed a firm hand on Sam's shoulder, shaking his head sadly. If Sam had to guess he'd swear the man understood perfectly what Sam was telling him, but he had an obligation to his patient and that meant doing what Dean wanted; whether it was what was best or not. "I'm sorry Sam. Really I am. But there's nothing I can do right now. My observations tell me that you being near him is what's causing his agitation. You're going to have to give him a chance to calm down. Take a day. Get yourself some rest. And hopefully he'll be feeling more up to your company tomorrow."

"Please, doc, if I can just talk to him. Just _explain_ to him–"

Dr. Northrop held up a hand to silence Sam. The action proved a finality as the man spoke firmly to the young man in front of him. "You need to leave, Sam. You're not helping your brother right now."

_...Bastard orchestrated the whole fucking thing! He knew what he was doing the entire time. Guaranteed. _The water would have turned cold a long time ago if he'd been anywhere other than a motel, but almost forty-five minutes later had Sam still punishing himself underneath the scalding water, his skin now blotchy red from the heat, fingers shriveled from the wet. And he finally reached down and cranked the knobs, ceasing the flow of water and still barely noticing as his hand screamed in pain from the beating it had taken. One finger bent at an odd angle, and failed to curl around the hot water knob as the rest of them did, yet instead of cradling it, Sam continued to punish it.

Sam grabbed the towel with his left hand, the broken hand, and proceeded to rub the moisture from his body with less than gentle strokes. Losing his grip on the towel only proved to anger him more and he reached for the white square of terry cloth, stripping it from the floor with a loud crack and continued to dry himself off. His hand rebelled again, but this time he left the towel on the floor and stormed angrily, naked, from the bathroom.

Both hands fumbled wildly through his duffle bag, pulling out the first pair of jeans and the first t-shirt he found. And only after Sam was dressed and pacing the floor furiously did he finally notice the throbbing pain lacing through his now mangled left hand. He looked down, staring at the bruised and swollen appendage as though it were still foreign to him. Lifting it in front of his eyes, Sam studied his hand, turning it, attempting to move each finger in turn. He moved into auto pilot, shuffling zombie-like out to the car and retrieving the first-aid kit from the glove box.

One look at the crooked ring finger told Sam he'd broken it, but additional prodding of the rest of his hand revealed nothing else to be broken, just extremely bruised. _Dammit, I don't have time for this!_ But in reality, he had plenty of time. Because Dean had sent him away. And if he couldn't be at the hospital, at his brother's side, then he had nowhere else to be. There was nothing else to do but to open the first-aid kit and bandage his hand.

He did so, monotonously, going through motions that he'd been trained to do at the ripe age of five. In less than two minutes Sam had his hand wrapped tightly in an Ace bandage. He'd re-set the broken finger, splinting it against the adjoining middle finger, but the pain had yet to go away. If anything, it was worse. Maybe because he was finally letting the physical pain in, maybe because his hand had now swollen to twice its original size. He groaned, annoyed by the fact that he would have to make a trip outside to get some ice, contemplating just letting the hand hurt. Stubbornness finally won out. _I'll be damned if I let that bastard get the satisfaction of knowing I hurt myself because of him. _

xxxxxx

The drugs wore off shortly before dinner and Dean returned to consciousness groggy and disoriented, and alone. Immediately the thought came that Sam was nowhere to be seen, that his little brother had deserted him, and Dean's eyes grew wide. But the thought was fleeting and he soon remembered the real reason Sam was no longer hovering at his bedside. _I ran him off. I told him to leave. _Breathing deeply, Dean managed to calm his spent nerves, reminding himself that it was for the better, convincing himself that Sam shouldn't have to see him go through what he was dealing with.

A smug smile formed on Dean's face as he congratulated himself on a job well done. He wished he could have avoided the sedative, but it had been necessary to play it convincing, and convincing meant making the doctor believe he was truly under duress. Years of lying to authority figures had fine tuned his skills and the fake attack hadn't even turned heads, although he supposed there was enough reality in it to add believability.

Faint knocking on his door brought Dean from his thoughts and he looked up as Paul slipped through the opening with a full tray of food and a patronizing grin. "Hey buddy, thought you might be hungry."

Dean rolled his eyes, critically regarding the thirty-something man who seemed to be acting as though they were best friends. _I'm not your buddy. You and I will never be friends. _

But if the aide noticed Dean's annoyance at his presence he didn't appear to care. Instead, he strode confidently through the room to Dean's bed, set the food on the rolling table and planted himself in the bedside chair. Sam's chair.

"It's not gourmet, but at least the food's edible," Paul continued, rolling the table across Dean's lap and lifting the lid from the tray.

Food smells wafted through the air, invading Dean's nose, and he looked down at the tray in disgust. _Gross. Health Food. _Disdain appeared in the young man's face as he eyed the skinless, baked chicken, brown rice, steamed vegetables and green jell-o. He scrunched up his nose.

"Hhhhhaaaammmm– b– b– urg–" Dean pleaded, pushing the tray away with his good hand.

Paul shook his head, laughing. "Sorry buddy. I know your brother snuck something in for you this afternoon, but your stuck with hospital food tonight. You need a well balanced meal."

_Screw well balanced. I want grease!_ He shook his head firmly as his mouth slurred out adamantly, "Nnnnnooooo."

Shoulder's shrugged, showing he could care less what his patient truly wanted as Paul pushed the tray back in Dean's direction. "You eat this or you don't eat at all." It was that simple. It was Dean's choice.

_Fine_. Dean snatched up the fork in his left hand with a sharp glare at the aide. It surprised him how difficult it was to get the fork to sit properly in his non-dominant hand, and tedious, purposeful motions were necessary to ensure successful bites. The vegetables were no problem, the rice was more difficult to keep on the fork, but he still managed. And the jell-o was downright annoying, but it still made it to his mouth without making a mess, his own determination at not appearing helpless overriding the wavering of his hand. The problem came not in the form of messiness, but in the form of size. The baked chicken, gross as it may appear, still taunted him as it sat, un-cut on the tray in front of him. _How the hell am I supposed to eat that?_

Paul had been watching Dean carefully as he'd scarfed down the dinner in spite of his obvious disgust at it. As he watched the man hesitate over the chicken and finally give in to defeat, putting the fork back on the tray, Paul sprang to action. "Can I cut that for you?" he offered eagerly, already hovering over the meat with the fork and knife before Dean could respond.

His hand sprang back into action, grabbing Paul too roughly around the wrist. Shocked, the aide dropped the utensils with a loud clatter as he looked at his patient. "Ffffun," Dean slurred, immediately shaking his head angrily as the wrong word came out once again. "Fff– fffull," he spat out, glaring at the man.

"You have to eat. Just let me help you." The fork and knife were once again retrieved and Paul began to cut.

_I don't want your fucking help!_ He wanted his words. Wanted his voice. And for the first time since he'd woken up he realized how much he missed Sam. _Sam would understand what I want. He would be OK if I don't want to eat my food. He wouldn't push. Well...alright, he'd mother hen me to death. But at least it would be Sam doing it and not some dork of a stranger_ _trying to make a new friend. _

He'd be damned if he allowed himself to be waited on, especially by this idiot, but with only one hand Dean knew he could never cut his own meat. There was only one solution to the problem, and in one swift movement Dean reached in, grabbed the fork from Paul's hand, and speared the remainder of the chicken. A broad, smug grin stretched across Dean's face as he took a large bite from the breast meat lollipop that he had just created.

Paul remained still, caught totally off guard by Dean's actions, unsure how to respond. But Dean's goofy grin gave him the answers he needed, and soon Paul's face had stretched into its own smile. He laughed. "Man, you don't let anybody help you do you?"

_Damn straight. I can take care of myself. I don't need you. I don't need Sam. I don't need anyone. _Dean nodded in the affirmative, taking another bite of the bland chicken and trying to pretend he was enjoying it.

He finished quickly, hoping an empty tray would lead to a disappearing Paul. Thankfully, the wish was granted. With no other excuse to be in the room, Paul quickly collected the dishes, said good-bye, and left. No longer feeling the need to maintain his facade, Dean collapsed back against the bed, heaving slightly as he fought back the emotions that threatened to pour forth from his soul. He couldn't cry. Not now. Not ever.

Despair transferred itself to determination as Dean focused his efforts not on what he had lost, but on what he needed to gain. Despite the nap he'd woken from less than an hour before, he was exhausted, but Dean refused to give in to it. He had work to do. His eyes focused intently on the numb side of his body, silently begging the uncooperative limbs to move. When nothing happened, he determined that maybe they just needed help. Reaching with the left arm for the empty water glass sitting on the bedside table, Dean grasped it tightly, consciously calculating the pressure needed to hold onto the cup before he reached across his body and slid the cup between the motionless fingers on his right hand.

His fingers curled loosely around the mustard yellow plastic, but the response was unintentional, just a residual symptom of the injury. Ever since he'd woken up his hand had been curled loosely into a fist, and slipping the cup between the fingers and his palm had only served to open the clench enough to fit the intruding object. But it was enough to give Dean hope as he ground his teeth together in fierce determination as he attempted to move the cup. _Pick it up, dammit. Pick up the cup. Come on, Dean. You can do it. It's just a cup. Pick up the damn cup._ His mind worked overtime, a mental pep talk brewing deep inside which came out vocally as a series of grunts and groans.

But for all his efforts, the hand remained as still as ever and the cup tipped slightly from his limp grasp as he shifted in the bed. Anger welled up inside, filling him completely before spilling to the outside. With a tortured howl, Dean retrieved the cup again with his left hand and launched it mightily across the room. It cracked as it hit the wall, leaving behind a small nick in the otherwise stark white wall, and then bounced across the floor, tapping hollowly for several seconds before coming to a final resting place in front of the door to the bathroom. He lashed out again, making contact with the rolling table, pushed back but still hovering across his lap. It went flying, slamming into the dresser before upending itself onto the floor. And then the IV lines were yanked from his arm, clear fluids spraying across his lap as the line continued to drip, mixing with the spattering of blood now dripping from his arm where the needle was once embedded. His body quavered as unbidden sobs finally escaped the prison Dean had maintained all his life and tears streaked his red cheeks, but Dean barely noticed as he sunk deeper into despair feeling as though all hope was lost.

xxxxxxx

The ice had done a mediocre job of alleviating the swelling in his hand, but at least the pain had subsided. Although the four ibuprofen tablets he'd swallowed earlier probably had more to do with that than the painfully cold blocks he'd submerged his hand into for several minutes. Either way, Sam had chosen to push any thoughts of his hand to the back of his mind. Dean was the only thing he could afford to think about right now.

He made his way back to the hospital that night, fervently hoping that Dean had had enough time to change his mind. His stubborn excuse for a brother needed him, whether he wanted to admit it or not, and Sam was determined to make him realize that fact - even if it meant beating it into the older man.

It surprised Sam that he'd managed to make it as far as he did without being stopped, or even noticed, by any of the staff on Dean's floor. Apparently, they hadn't gotten the memo that the patient in room 708 had virulently demanded that one Sam 'O'Malley' be removed and banned from his sight. So as Sam neared his brother's closed door he slowed down, taking several deep breaths as he reviewed in his mind what he was going to say.

Odd noises sounded from within the room as Sam's hand closed around the knob and he stopped, peering through the window before intruding. His heart sank, and a myriad of feelings stirred in his stomach as Sam took in the sight that opened up before him. _Oh God, Dean. _


	6. Chapter 6

_I know, I know, I know. I'm a terrible person for keeping you guys waiting all this time. I've spent just about every night on the phone for the past couple of months and that was always my writing time. My sincerest apologies to you all, and I hope this makes up for it. I will do my best to post the next one sooner, but just keep on me if I don't. I promise you all, I _will_ finish this story. Thanks so much for your reviews. _

Dean was crying. He'd never seen Dean cry. They'd spent the better part of their lives together, living side by side as they went from one crumbling mess of a motel to the next. They'd shared more carbon dioxide fumes from the Chevy Impala than he cared to think about. They'd fought battles too numerous to count, stitched each other up more nights than he could even remember, and even dealt with the torment of not knowing what had happened to their missing father. Together. And yet in all that, Sam had never once witnessed his brother in tears. But there he was; the hospital room in shambles, blood spattering the bedclothes and floor, as moisture spilled unceremoniously down the older hunters face.

Slowly, quietly, Sam rolled himself across the door, away from the window. He flattened his back against the wall, palms pressed tightly to the flat surface. His breath came in shallow spurts as he attempted to hold down the yelp that threatened to escape as his already bruised hand hit solid wall. He didn't dare look back through the window, so he could only hope Dean hadn't just heard him out in the hall. Dean couldn't know he'd just seen what he had. If he ever wanted Dean to allow him back into his life, Dean could never know that Sam had seen him cry.

"Young man! What on earth are you doing?" A curious nurse, one Sam had never seen before, nearly gave his hideout away as she called out loudly to him from across the hall.

Sam jumped, immediately pressing a finger to his lips and shushing the heavyset woman before she could cause too much commotion. It would be bad enough if she alerted Dean to the fact that he'd been out in the hall watching, but if Dean's doctor found him out here it could mean being kicked out of the hospital again. He just couldn't take that.

She looked like his grandmother, not that he'd ever known either of his grandmother's, but if he had known them this nurse looked exactly the way he imagined them to look. And as she placed hands on plump hips, an amused glint in her eye as she regarded the boy stealthily crossing the hallway toward her, Sam decided that the best way to approach her would be to pull out the Winchester charm.

"Sorry 'bout that ma'am," Sam crooned, flashing her his perfected million dollar smile that made all the women, young and old, immediately rush to him. He could never claim to hold Dean's power of seduction, but his own smile was nothing to scoff at. Usually the smile resulted in a plate of cookies or a home cooked meal, but this time it just resulted in the woman relaxing her stance and returning his gesture with her own rosy faced smile.

"Son, you weren't doing anything wrong, you just looked so odd standing there. Like you were too scared to move."

"I...I, uh," Sam hesitated for a second before scolding himself. _Tell her the truth, Sam. It's easier that way. _"My brother's in there...and I was about to go in, but then I noticed he was upset. And well, you don't know my brother, ma'am. He's usually so strong...holds everything in, you know? So when I saw him...crying...I just thought I'd give him a few minutes to himself. He wouldn't want me to have seen that."

She smiled sympathetically, releasing the last bit of skepticism she'd held, and placed a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder. "He's the young man who suffered the stroke, isn't he." It wasn't a question, and she didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "Such a shame. To be so young–""He's going to be fine," Sam cut her off, unwilling to hear any speculation in the negative. "My brother's a fighter. He'll get through this."

"Of course he will," she agreed, the same hand she'd laid on his shoulder now moving up and down as she patted him, offering Sam a small bit of solace. He couldn't help but think that it shouldn't be her giving comfort, or any stranger for that matter. There were people who were supposed to give that kind of comfort; Dad's for example, although his father had yet to answer any of the numerous messages Sam had left on his cell phone since the nightmare had begun. And Dean was the one who needed the comforting, not the other way around, so he was out of the running. The thought struck him hard as Sam allowed this nurse, whom he only knew to be Sophie because of the silver name badge she wore on a lanyard around her neck, to give him the comfort he so desperately needed. With no friends or family to rally around the boys in their hour of need, they were alone. Of course, Dean had Sam, whether he wanted him or not. But with Dean submerged in self-pity and a substantial bout of depression, Sam was really and truly alone.

And Sophie seemed to recognize that fact as she pulled the boy tightly against her chest, much like he imagined a grandmother would do, stroking his hair and allowing him the opportunity to grieve. But the moment soon passed as Sam became self-conscious of the fact that he was sobbing in the arms of a complete stranger. He pushed back, straightening his shirt as he mumbled an awkward thank-you to the woman. "I think I'm gonna go check on my brother again. He's probably OK now."

She smiled, her lip turned up just enough to tell him that she understood, and patted him on the shoulder. "Your brother's lucky to have you."

_Yeah, too bad Dean doesn't seem to know that,_ Sam scoffed to himself as he made his way back to the door. Cautiously, he peeked through the window again, once again facing the wreckage that resulted from Dean's earlier rant and then turned back to Sophie. "I think we may be needing your help in here."

As Sam entered, Dean was quick to swipe his arm across his eyes, removing any lingering moisture that hadn't already dried. His eyes were still swollen, a tell-tale sign that he'd previously been crying, but Sam ignored it because that's what Dean would want him to do. He also ignored the mess Dean had created, figuring he'd save that for one of the orderlies. There was only one thing on his mind right now, and that was getting through to Dean.

"Hey," Sam broached hesitantly, carefully making his way to Dean's bedside. "Mind if I come in?"

_You're already in, now aren't you._ Dean glared at his little brother, telling Sam that he still wasn't welcome without saying a word. But Sam persisted, stepping closer before pulling up a chair beside the bed.

"We need to talk," he said sternly, arms crossed and gaze holding steady. He meant business.

Dean looked away, suddenly finding the bland white walls ultimately more appealing than his brother's stern face. He wanted so badly to get out of bed and stalk off, escape the lecture he knew was coming, but his damn leg wouldn't cooperate, though he couldn't be sure his nerves would be much better. But the gods were with him, if only for a few minutes, as Sam's lecture was interrupted by the presence of a nurse.

"Good lord, young man, what have you done to yourself," Sophie's worried voice cut through the tension in the air as she raced forward, immediately shutting off the IV that had continued to flow without notice from either of the boys. She took stock of the situation, disappeared for a minute, and then returned with the appropriate equipment. She worked quickly, cleaning the dried blood from Dean's arm and reinserting the IV before he knew what had happened. And then an orderly was retrieved and Dean was moved swiftly from the bed to a wheelchair in order to change the bedclothes.

As Dean moped, offering no help to the nurse or the orderly, Sam stood across the room, watching intently. His heart sank as he realized just how close to the edge Dean actually was. His brother had lost all hope. It had only been a day, and yet Dean had completely withdrawn into himself, totally convinced that this was the end of his life as he knew it.

_There's got to be something I can do_. Thoughts and ideas popped up in Sam's mind, offering themselves as solutions to the problem. But Sam discarded every one without much more than a seconds thought, labeling each as it was tossed aside in his subconscious. Too complicated. Too risky. Takes too long. He'd never go for it. Solving problems had never been his forte; that was Dean's area of expertise. Sure, Sam usually did the research, compiling every last bit of data he could find. But then he handed the information off to Dean and waited patiently for big brother to come up with the solution. _What the hell am I supposed to do?_

Lost in his thoughts, Sam had barely taken notice as Sophie and the orderly finished changing the bedclothes and mopping the floors, but he snapped back to reality when they returned to Dean's side, preparing to move him back to the bed.

"Wait," Sam spat out louder than he had intended. Three faces turned to look at him, curious at the outburst.

Sam paused, unsure where he was going with his request. "I...uh...I think maybe some fresh air might do him some good," Sam finally choked out, ignoring the daggers Dean was currently shooting at him from the depths of his eyes. "Would it be alright if I took Dean out to the courtyard?"

If anyone had bothered to ask Dean his opinion of the cockamamy scheme he would have adamantly refused to go anywhere. He was in no mood to be paraded around in front of the group of strangers that would undoubtedly occupy the courtyard on this warm evening, and he was certainly in no mood to go anywhere with Sam - Mr. Sunshine himself. But nobody bothered to ask him what he wanted, and he wasn't sure if he would have been able to get his response out anyway. So, in lieu of a verbal response, Dean simply glared. And much to his chagrin, his expression and feelings were blatantly ignored.

"I think that's a wonderful idea!" Sophie's over-eager voice exclaimed as a wide smile claimed her face. "Fresh air does wonders for the soul." She crossed the room to the closet in three large strides, collecting several pillows before returning to her patient. The pillows were strategically placed at Dean's right side and underneath his arm to help prop him up on his weaker side, and then she transferred his IV to a pole on the back of the wheelchair, making him mobile.

"He's all set," Sophie announced to Sam while absently patting Dean on the shoulder. "Just give us a holler if you two need any help."

Sam nodded, circling around to the back of the chair, effectively cutting off Dean's last bit of communication. He could glare and scowl all he wanted, but Sam would not see it.

The wheelchair lurched forward, bumping a little before Sam fell into a smooth, steady forward momentum. They passed several nurses, most of whom had appeared in Dean's room at least once, but save for a man on a pay phone with his back turned to them, they passed no other civilians in the hallway. For a minute, Dean allowed himself to relax, assuming the same lack of people would greet them in the courtyard.

He couldn't have been farther from the truth, and Dean's anger and embarrassment at being presented as the newest spectacle to the courtyard freak show almost succeeded in providing him enough power to propel the chair back the way it came. Almost. His left hand dropped to the side of the chair, gripping the wheel tightly, abruptly halting the forward motion. Sam startled, almost running into the back of the wheelchair before regaining his footing. And Dean pushed hard against the wheel, grunting as he created new movement, but as physics will tell, any object moving around a pivot point will only succeed in circling around its axis. Dean got nowhere, and only proved to make himself slightly dizzy as he called greater attention to himself from the courtyard audience. Regaining his control of the wheelchair, Sam pushed Dean past the group of patients and families, barely noticing the eyes that followed them as they settled in the far end of the courtyard. He didn't care to acknowledge the stares; scorned them, but didn't react to them; because they didn't gawk out of curiosity, but rather gazed with sympathy, issuing a silent welcome into the pain induced club that had only one requirement - traumatic injury. Sam didn't want their sympathy, and Dean didn't need to know it existed. Sam was certain Dean was too far locked in his own self pity to notice anything more than the simple fact that they were being watched, but he still issued a silent prayer that Dean would ignore them.

The wheelchair was parked facing out over the wall of the courtyard, giving Dean a birds eye view of the parking lot, and effectively keeping Dean's back to their company. Sam planted himself directly across from his brother, his butt on the edge of the concrete wall, and crossed his arms against his chest. A low sigh emitted from his partially open mouth, and then a slightly louder one as he worked to get Dean's attention.

Finally, after sigh number five, Dean finally looked up at Sam with an annoyed glare. _I'm trying to ignore you_, _imbecile. What the fuck do you want?_

"Dean–" Sam hesitated, unsure how he wanted to start. "This isn't working." He sighed again, this time scrubbing his hand down his face. When he looked up, Dean was looking at him with confusion. Apparently his brother hadn't quite expect that specific comment; probably expecting something more along the lines of 'Dammit, get a hold of yourself, man."

"You...you–" he struggled, mind searching desperately for a moments epiphany on how to get through to Dean. It came to Sam with a sudden whoosh of comprehension, slamming into his skull with almost as much force as his visions usually did; but this wasn't a vision. It was simply a solution. The answer to their problems wasn't in the word 'you,' it was in the word 'I.' As much as he hated to admit it, the best solution to getting Dean to stop feeling sorry for himself was to give him something else to focus on. Give him _Sam_ to focus on.

He spoke, the emotions in his words conveying far more confidence than he felt in himself. But this was no time to be weak. Even when the words themselves made Sam sound small and inconsequential, internally he had to be stronger than ever. "Dean, _I_ need you to want to get better...for _me. Please!_"

Sam paused, searching his brother's eyes for any sense of recognition, and for a split second he thought he noted a familiar spark ignite in the older hunter's eyes. There was hope, and Sam continued. "I'm falling apart here, man. Look what I did to my hand, for crying out loud." He held the injured appendage up in front of Dean's eyes, immediately regretting showing his own weakness but there was nothing he could do about it now. And it worked.

Dean's left hand shot out, anxiously grasping Sam's hand around the wrist and examining the multitude of black and blue coloring, immediately focusing on the broken finger in among the patchwork of bruises. In that moment, Dean was Dean again; 'big brother, always looking out for Sammy, always putting Sammy first Dean.'

Holding in his smile for fear that it might elicit a regression to the minute bit of progress he'd just made, Sam let out a long breath of relief. Dean was back, if not physically then at least mentally, but for how long? How long would it be before a spill in physical therapy or an inability to speak the desired words would send Dean flying back to the dreadful state of mourning and misery he'd claimed as his own after the stroke? How long before he again lashed out at Sam for simply existing, for trying to help?

Sam didn't speak, didn't move, hell, he barely allowed himself to breathe as Dean made a thorough examination of his mangled hand. He waited, patiently allowing his brother to reclaim his rightful place in the big brother throne. It became apparent that his few voiced words had actually spoken volumes to Dean when the older man finally looked into Sam's eyes and glared at him again. But this was not the 'I hate you' glare that Sam had received so many times in so very few hours, this glare was different. This glare said, 'Sammy, you're an idiot.'

As if the expression weren't enough to get the point across, Dean decided that this was an adequate time to try using his voice again, the vow to remain silent immediately forgotten by the need to point out little brother's stupidity. Dean furrowed his brow in concentration and formed his lips around the word. "Ffffoooool," he slurred, finding the right word on the first try.

It was hard to know whether to smile at Dean's accomplishment or chide him on the reasoning behind the comment in the first place, so Sam did both. He grinned, arm stretching out to pat Dean on the shoulder. "Yeah, I guess I am a fool," Sam admitted lightheartedly, but then added, "But if you hadn't kicked me out of your room in the first place none of this would have happened. So I guess you're the one I should be blaming."

Dean rolled his eyes in an exaggerated motion, allowing a slight smile to form on his face. "Nnnnnoooot my f– foot– f– fault. Yyyyyoooou h– h– hover."

Sam watched his brother suck in several deep, shuddering breaths as he tried to regain oxygen and composure from his two sentence monologue and debated whether or not he would feel guilty if he continued to goad his ailing counterpart. Desire won out over reason and Sam's mouth was soon open again. "I learned to hover from the best there is, big brother. Nobody hovers and mother hens better than Dean Winchester himself." His fist shot out, gently tapping Dean on his good arm and was surprised to find the wrist caught as he withdrew. Opening his eyes wide, Sam stared at Dean with curiosity as he waited patiently to hear his next words.

His brother's grip was still as tight as it had ever been, but he loosened his fingers around Sam's wrist when he realized he had the younger's full attention. Unshed tears glistened in Dean's eyes and Sam's chest tightened as he recognized the internal struggle his brother fought with himself over whether to release Sam's hand and wipe them away or to simply ignore their existence. When Dean finally chose to ignore them, Sam did the same, instead focusing on Dean's lips as he attempted to piece together more garbled words that refused to be properly voiced.

_Dammit Sam, that's just it. I'm the big brother! I'm the only one who gets to hover and mother hen. That's why I'm so good at it, because it's my job! _It killed him. It absolutely killed Dean to have so many thoughts and feelings and emotions running through his mind and yet no way to clearly express them. He laughed to himself a little, realizing just how ironic that thought was. Here, he'd spent 26 years of his life bottling every emotion, piling more and more bricks on top of the hated thoughts in an effort to repress his feelings. Dean Winchester did have emotions - at least that's what he'd tried to pass off to his family every opportunity he got. And yet now, when he had no way to share those feelings without sounding like an illiterate troll, now he wanted to share. He had to share, right? For Sam? Because Sam was hurting and Sam needed him.

Dean pursed his lips and gave Sam his sternest big brother look, the expression so effective Sam almost missed the fact that the words coming out of Dean's mouth were sub par at best, and in an instant Dean _was _Dean again. "Y– yyyou n– n– iii nnneeeed d– doct– t– or l– loooook aaaat h– h– and," Dean insisted, panting again.

"Nnnnnnooowww," he added when Sam prepared to shake his head in protest.

The final word stopped him dead as Sam realized just how important it was to his brother to take control again and Sam redirected the left right motion of his head to an up and down one. "OK, Dean. I'll get it looked at right now. Let's go."

The smugness in Dean's smile was unmistakable as Sam began pushing the wheelchair from the courtyard, and only Sam's own smug smile rivaled that of his brother as he leaned down to Dean's level. "It's good to have you back, big bro," Sam whispered softly in Dean's ear. "It's good to have you back."


	7. Chapter 7

_Hi guys. This is a little bit shorter than my norm, but I had a day off today and wanted to get you all another installment. It just seemed like a good stopping point. Hope you enjoy. I promise I will finish this. It just may take me longer than any of us might want. Keep with the reviews; they inspire me. _

A week passed before Dean was willing to try walking again, and when he did broach the subject his stuttered words contained far more hesitation and apprehension than should be expected from the normally self-assured hunter. But at least the phrasing came out more clearly, having spent several hours a day with Heidi, his speech therapist. They'd begun at the elementary level, simply applying sounds to the letters of the alphabet and identifying images as what they were. In typical Winchester fashion, Dean healed much more quickly than other patients and Heidi was more than pleased when Dean's insistence to work on his speech had him stumbling less and less over word identities in the course of a week's time.

_He's moving faster than any patient I've ever worked with_, Heidi had exclaimed to Sam one afternoon as Dean slept a few feet away. _It's amazing. I've never had a patient progress this quickly. _

To which Sam had casually replied that, _the Winchester men are fighters. We heal quickly and we don't let anything keep us down for long._

Heidi had smiled, patting Sam on the shoulder as she brushed past him on her way out the door. _I'm just glad your brother has something to fight for. I hope he continues to hold on to it. _

Dean had had no more relapses into his state of depression in the last week either; Sam's plea that he come back to be the big brother Sam needed doing it's job tenfold. But in spite of his newfound reason to fight to get his life back, there were still factors Dean had no control over. Walking topped that list and he'd spent every single therapy session fending off Lila's suggestion's that he try the walker again. He'd regained some strength and movement in his leg, but not enough to do much more than yield a little pressure against Lila's hand - not nearly enough to feel comfortable trying to stand. Above all else, Dean feared falling again, deciding it would be better to not attempt standing rather than make a fool of himself in front of a roomful of people for the second time, or the third, or fourth for that matter.

If it hadn't been for the late night conversation he'd had with Sam after his umpteenth refusal to attempt the walker again, he probably would still be adamantly refusing Lila's request. Dean finally agreed, but only under the stipulation that they do it in private and Sam had smiled triumphantly. "Done," he'd exclaimed, punching the air with his fist at the victory. Sam worked everything out, convincing Lila to arrange for an evening session when most other patients were done for the day.

The therapy room was empty, save for Lila, Paul, Sam, and of course Dean. But even with his request having been fulfilled, Dean still appeared anxious as Paul strapped the brace tightly around the young hunter's bum leg. His left hand gripped the arm rest of the wheelchair tightly, knuckles turning white. He eyed the walker nervously and then glanced down at his unmoving right hand and arm, wishing he'd regained something - anything - in it. But the arm had stubbornly refused to improve and his hand lay awkwardly in his lap, the fingers curled into an unbidden fist. At times he wore a brace on that hand, a combination of stiff metal, plastic and leather forcing his hand to lay straight instead of curling into itself, but it had been removed for the time being so his arm would fit better into the cradle on the walker. He didn't know what he preferred better, the tell-tale brace that clearly advertised 'gimp', or the clenched fist that didn't really hide his handicap any better than the brace did. Although, he supposed the wheelchair certainly wasn't helping his case. More than anything, Dean hated feeling helpless. He hated needing Sam to help him get dressed. Hated urinating through a tube because he couldn't make it to the bathroom. Hated the fact that a woman half his size stood a better chance of moving him from a bed to a wheelchair than he, himself, did. And God, he hated the looks and the stares as people comprehended his inabilities, hated their pity when they realized how young he was and how much of his life he's missing out on.

"OK, Dean, are you ready?" Lila's perky voice sliced through Dean's thoughts. He jumped, too lost in his own mind to be expecting another voice and she smiled slightly as she realized she'd startled her patient.

For a split second he contemplated backing out again, but the hopeful look on Sam's face was all Dean needed to finalize his decision. "I– I g– g– uess ssssso," he stuttered, pleased with himself for finding all the right words on the first try, but still annoyed at his inability to sound normal as he spoke. "Lll– little ner– vousss," he admitted, still eyeing the walker that now sat directly in front of him with apprehension.

Understanding showed on Lila's face, but she held firm. "It's alright to be nervous, Dean. But as long as you continue to breathe normally and focus on the task at hand you'll be fine. I promise. Just trust me, OK?"

Dean hesitated, but he soon nodded his acceptance, sitting a little straighter in the chair as he waited for the PT to brace herself for the lift. Paul came to Dean's other side, ready to help, and Sam stood back, nervously chewing on his bottom lip while feeling completely useless.

"What can I do to help?" Sam finally asked, feeling left out. _It should be me at Dean's side. God knows he's been there for me far too many times to count. It's my turn to help him._

"We're good, Sam," Lila assured him, not realizing that she was doing more than just denying him access to the situation. Telling Sam no deflated him; made him feel like an outsider, and he stepped back from the situation feeling as though he was merely a spectator in his own life. Because Dean's life _was_ his life. Their lives had been intertwined since the that fateful day in the fire 22 years ago, and now a perfect stranger was telling him he didn't need to be involved in his own life.

"Alright," Sam said quietly, head hung low. "I'll just be over here if you need me."

Dean looked up, immediately noticing the expression on his little brother's face and sprang to action. "Llllet h– him heeelllp," Dean ordered. "I www– wwwalk t– to himmm," he suggested, tone clearly conveying that he needed Sam to make the trek worthwhile.

Lila nodded, understanding her stuttering patient far better then she did his healthy little brother, and immediately pointed to a spot several feet in front of Dean. "Stand there," she told Sam. "Back up if he's able to make it that far."

Sam nodded and stood where he was told, suddenly feeling like a father waiting for his baby to take its first steps. In a way that was exactly what this was, except Dean wasn't a baby, and he certainly wasn't Sam's child. Standing before Sam was a 26 year old man, grudgingly relearning to walk after having his feet yanked viciously out from under him. Looking hopeful, Sam waited patiently as Lila and Paul lifted Dean to his feet and steadied him behind the walker.

"How do you feel so far?" Lila asked, looking Dean up and down as she searched for any signs of a repeat performance of before. "Any dizziness? Lightheadedness?"

"Fff– ine," Dean assured her after he took a moment to assess himself. It felt weird, balancing on a half numb body, and if his right leg wasn't firmly attached at the hip he could have easily assumed it to be someone else's. He allowed the majority of his weight to rest heavily on the walker, the left arm shaking just a little as he attempted to hold himself up primarily with that arm, afraid to put too much stock in the abilities of his still numb right arm. But with a deep breath and another glance at Sam for some final encouragement he nodded his consent.

"I– I'm rrrready."

The going was slow, with Dean tentatively shuffling forward with his good foot, afraid to rest all weight on the bad leg. He could do nothing with that right leg, and Paul spent the majority of his time kneeling at Dean's side as he assisted in pushing it forward, matching it up with the left. Lila and Sam made a great cheering section, their voices ringing in unison as they encouraged Dean to keep trying, telling him that he was doing great. But the whole thing seemed like too much of a dream. All he could do was focus every ounce of his efforts on shuffling one foot forward, and then the other; pushing the walker forward another couple of inches and then doing the whole thing over again. It seemed like he'd taken a thousand steps, and yet Sam was still several feet away. He might as well have been miles away for all the energy Dean had left in him, but he was determined. He would make it the distance to his brother, and he would make that damn foot move on his own at least once before he got to Sam.

Four more steps were taken in dazed oblivion and he was getting closer and closer to Sam with each one, but still the leg wouldn't move and Dean began to feel desperate. _It's gotta move. I have to take a damn step. I _have _to!_

"Dean, you're doing great! I'm so proud of you, man. Keep it up!" Sam's voice was distant, echoing softly through his head as he focused more and more of his mind on making that one foot move. He didn't know if it was doing more good or harm as the words both encouraged and taunted the older hunter.

And then there it was. Sam's voice raised a notch as he eagerly exclaimed, "Oh my God! Look at that. You did it, Dean! You did it!"

Dean looked down slowly, barely willing to believe his leg was actually moving on its own, but it was happening for the second time now. He was currently taking his second unassisted step toward Sam, and the absence of Paul's hand around his leg was unmistakable. He was walking; or at least as much as this slow, choppy drag could be called walking. But it didn't matter, because he was doing it on his own.

Dean made it the final three steps to Sam before his exhausted body gave out from underneath him. Somehow, Sam seemed to have been anticipating a collapse and his arms shot out, catching Dean before he could hit the floor, struggling to hold him up as he leaned awkwardly over the front bar of the walker.

"That was awesome, big brother," Sam whispered into Dean's ear as he lowered him down into the wheelchair that Lila had raced to get the minute Dean went down. "I'm so proud of you."

Dean was too tired to reply, but he smiled as he leaned back against the rear of the chair, relief flooding his features. _I did it. I walked. _


	8. Chapter 8

_Alright, so this took me in a completely different direction than what I had originally intended for this story, but then, I guess that's why they call it a work in progress. I like the idea my fingers came up with, and I hope you do too. As always, let me know what you think. I thrive on responses and I am doing my best to pay you back with quality updates, as untimely as they may be. I promise to finish the story, though. Thanks again. You guys rock!_

The little hairs on the back of Sam's neck stood erect, tingling madly as he rounded the corner of the hospital. He froze, before reversing his steps and ducking into the shadows as he internalized the bits and pieces of conversation he could make out as they floated in his directions. It didn't take his freaky psychic intuitions to know that the conversation taking place between Dean's doctor and the three men meant bad news.

_Insurance fraud. Deceptive. Looking for them for a long time. _As he listened to the fragments of the conversation, willing his beating heart to slow down and stop thumping so loud in his ears, Sam was able to put two and two together. Clearly, the man in the neatly pressed suit was from the insurance company; an agent maybe, or possibly one of their lawyers. The stiff, military stature of the other two men, although somewhat disguised by their costume of khaki slacks and polo shirts, suggested to Sam they were plainclothes police officers. Bulging pockets and an unmistakable lump near the small of their backs confirmed what Sam had already concluded. Years of credit card scams and insurance fraud had finally caught up with them as Dean lay in a hospital for two weeks recovering. These men were here to collect.

_Shit!_ Sam's mind screamed loudly while his vocal cords remained silent. His mind spun, frantically calculating the amount of time he would have to get Dean out of the hospital before the conversation ended and the cops swarmed. Before he could do anything else, Sam had to figure out a way past the cluster of newfound opposition in the first place. Dean's room was only a few doors past where they stood and straight past the four men was by far the quickest path. To circle the hospital would only waste valuable time; time he and Dean didn't have.

His eyes roamed the hallway, searching for a diversion. They finally settled on a lunch cart, piled high with trays of food and drinks, that had been abandoned as its driver distributed meals to the occupants of one of the rooms. Without another seconds hesitation, Sam grabbed hold of the cart and shoved hard, sending the cart and its contents sailing across the hallway and into the opposite wall. Sam didn't wait for the crash; didn't wait to see the results of his handiwork splattered all over the floor of the east wing of floor six. To pause was to lose valuable time and he didn't have any time to spare.

The crash created the diversion Sam needed. Staff from all over the wing came flying into the hallway, unsure of the cause of the noise. Fear that it could be a patient, knowledge of what a lack of response would result in, meant that everyone responded. Sam managed to slip unnoticed past the doctor and the cops as they, too, sought out the cause of the crash, and he soon brought himself to a skidding halt in front of Dean's bed.

"We have to go. Now." Sam panted, already collecting his brother's things and stuffing them into a duffle bag before Dean could even react to his little brother's presence in the room. When Sam finally looked up, the bag now stuffed full as he struggled with the zipper, Dean was eyeing Sam with his most inquisitive '_Have you completely lost your mind'_ look.

"They know," Sam insisted, tugging the hospital issue wheelchair into position beside Dean's bed. There was no time for a conversation before getting Dean out of there; and so it took place at the same time. "Our insurance scam finally caught up with us. They've got cops out there and everything."

The panic in Sam's voice did more for Dean than the words themselves and he immediately sprang to action, scooting himself closer to the edge of the bed where Sam could more easily help him transfer into the wheelchair. _Dammit! If I could talk I could get us out of this mess,_' Dean screamed to himself, once again cursing his stuttered speech that leeched what little degree of confidence he might be able to muster in poise. Million dollar charm and a megawatt smile were useless when they were unaccompanied by a large helping of suave fast talk, and Dean was well aware of that fact. His powers, every last one of them, had been rendered useless the night his brain evoked a full fledged attack against his body.

To Dean's credit, he simply chose to accept his limitations at the present time - a solution rarely ever utilized by Dean's stubborn, pig-headed mind. But instinct told him that Sam didn't have time to wait as he attempted to stutter out some smart-assed comment or even launch a series of questions as to their situation. The time would come for that, and he knew Sam would wait patiently as he took five minutes to say what once could be said in a matter of seconds, but for now Dean remained silent, only grunting a little as his good elbow banged painfully against the armrest in their haste to get him seated.

"Alright, we have to go," Sam insisted once he was certain Dean was safe in the wheelchair. He threw the duffle bag into Dean's lap and shoved the chair forward, pausing only long enough to hazard a glance out into the hallway. Satisfied that no one was paying attention he maneuvered the bulky wheelchair out the door and down the hall, heading in the opposite direction of where he'd last seen Dr. Northrop and the insurance brigade.

Force of habit had resulted in Sam scouting out the hospital on the same day that Dean had been admitted. He'd never imagined he'd actually need an escape route, but the Winchester boys had been well trained and he was now grateful for that conditioning as he and Dean headed straight for the utility elevators hidden from view on the far side of the hospital. With any luck no one had noted them missing yet and there would still be plenty of time to make it to the car unnoticed.

Dean's vow of silence lasted only as long as it took for the elevator doors to close and then his mouth immediately shot open, stammering slightly as he worked through his question. "Sssam wha– what th– the h– hell?" he demanded, trying to appear stern despite the fact that fear was quickly over taking his emotions. _Sam's the rational one,_ he kept reminding himself although that particular revelation afforded little comfort. _If he's losing it there must be something really wrong. _

"We've been here too long," Sam admitted as he frantically watched the floor buttons light up while the elevator made its all too slow descent down the shaft. "They know the insurance information we gave was false and apparently they've been chasing after us for a long time. There was someone from the insurance company and two police officers talking to your doctor. Any minute they would have been in to arrest us."

_Shit. _Dean silenced himself, internalizing the barrage of cuss words that begged to spout from his typically filthy mouth. Stuttered cursing just didn't hold the same effect as solid words. _Dammit. How did they find out? _

"I just don't know how they caught up with us," Sam mused out loud, as though he had heard Dean's unspoken question. "I mean, it's not like this is the first time we've been grounded for weeks at a time. And they know about the credit cards, too. I never gave anyone at the hospital a card. This just doesn't make any sense."

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor and Sam abandoned his train of thought as he focused on the more daunting task of escaping from the hospital unnoticed. For a second he debated on leaving Dean hidden in the shadows as he retrieved the car, cursing himself for parking it so far away. _It would be nice to stretch my legs_, he'd thought to himself as he parked in the farthest row of cars from the hospital. But Dean had no means of protection if anyone happened to catch up with him, and Sam couldn't risk Dean's safety for a faster approach to the car.

He walked brusquely through the hospital lobby, looking straight ahead with his patient and trying to appear casual, as though he was doing exactly what he should be doing. As the automatic doors opened Sam's heart jumped a little in his throat as he caught sight of the twin police cruisers parked just to the left of the entry doors and he almost turned back around in search of another way out of the hospital. But the cruisers were empty, their drivers both upstairs on the sixth floor of the hospital. They'd probably discovered Dean was gone from the room by now, but for the time being they hadn't returned to their vehicles.

Taking a deep breath, Sam shoved the wheelchair forward again, quickening his pace in anticipation of their long trek across the parking lot. Periodic glances over his shoulder reassured Sam that any search taking place was still confined to within the hospital walls and he allowed himself to relax slightly as the car finally came into view - just slightly. He placed a shaky hand on Dean's shoulder, initially intending the motion to offer a small bit of reassurance to his brother, but eventually Sam realized the feelings of solace were being sent in the opposite direction. Dean's strong shoulders, muscles firm as he made attempts to gain a slight bit of control over the situation, radiated confidence. He trusted Sam; trusted that his little brother could, and would, get him out of this mess - and that trust shined through. Physically, Dean may have been hard pressed to protect himself or Sam from the situation, but big brother Dean held the capability to calm Sam down and assure him that they would be fine. They were Winchester's; and Winchester's were always fine.

Dean began struggling with his uncooperative limbs several feet before the wheelchair came to a stop beside the car, making every attempt to get himself and Sam out of the parking lot even faster. The effort did little to salvage any time, but Sam held his tongue as he watched, mentally pained, as Dean only succeeded in tangling his legs up in the foot rests of the wheelchair. As Sam brought the chair to a halt Dean dropped his head into his hand in exasperation, pretending not to notice as Sam knelt on the asphalt and disentangled his feet from their trap. And if it wasn't for the need for a fast getaway he would have protested quite loudly that he didn't need Sam's help getting into the car. After all, that's what he'd been working on with Lila for the past several days - transfers. He was still awkward; hell, he was downright clumsy, but given enough time and patience, Dean was now able to get himself from chair to bed and vice versa. He could only assume the same would apply to a transfer into the car. But they didn't have ten minutes to waste, which meant his ego would have to deflate just a little.

Slinging Dean's numb right arm over his shoulder, Sam hefted his brother to his feet in a hurried frenzy, swaying some as Dean's weight shifted heavily against him. Dean reached out his good arm, clutching the door frame tightly to steady himself before sliding unceremoniously onto the smooth black leather seat. He flopped like a rag doll against the back of the seat and grudgingly watched as Sam thrust his right arm and leg into the car with less care than Sam would normally yield.

Two sets of eyes then fell to the wheelchair, three inch tall white block letters screaming PROPERTY OF MERCY HOSPITAL against the bright blue plastic of the wheelchair back and Sam hesitated. "We can't take that with us," he admitted apologetically. "It's just too obvious. Will you be okay until we can stop and get you a new one?"

Dean nodded, having already given thought to that particular dilemma and knowing it was inevitable. Dark, soulful eyes assured Sam that he would be fine. They would work it all out. "L– lllet's g– g– go," he struggled to add, reaching across his body to grab for the handle, shutting the heavy door with a dull thud. A finality. _What's done is done, Sam. Life dealt us a raw deal. We just need to get on with the escape. _

Blinking, Sam hesitated for just a second as Dean slammed the door in his face before he sprang back to action, crossing to the opposite side of the car. Several hundred feet away at the entrance to the hospital, Sam could see the cops finally approaching their vehicles. He slid into the Impala, eyes holding steady on the two black and white units as doors opened and the coiled wires of the handheld radio units were stretched to reach the open air. Sam could only imagine what was being said into the units, but he didn't waste time to think about it. The engine started with a load roar and Sam had to hold back the urge to gun it out of the parking lot. No one knew what kind of car he would be driving, meaning their best disguise would be to blend in.

He drove slowly, sticking to the parking lot speed limit and staying within the painted lines. Holding his breath, Sam moved past the front of the hospital, cautioning a glance at Dean as he did so. His big brother had slid down in his seat, and now lay awkwardly with his head propped up against the windowsill. Whether he'd meant to do so or not, Sam was relieved that the position Dean had chosen effectively hid his face from the prying eyes of the officers. Taking his cue from big brother, Sam too slid down in his seat, purposely turning his head to the left so that the officers got only the view of his shaggy brown locks as they made their way out the maze of a parking lot.

Dean waited until they were safely out of sight of the hospital and several minutes on the highway before he chose to speak again. "Whe– where–"

"I'm not sure, Dean," Sam interrupted, knowing the question Dean wanted to ask and saving him from the struggle of asking it, assuming he just wanted to know the answer. "Right now we just need to get out of town. We'll figure out where to go once we're safe from the police."

Frustration took over the older man's features as he glared at Sam, their desperate situation taking a back burner to Dean's need to be heard. "D– don– t in– in– terr– upt me," he demanded angrily. _I'm the big brother, dammit. I need to take control of this situation. Sam shouldn't have to be protecting me; that's my job!_

This time Sam shut up; listening intently as Dean struggled to form the words in his next question. "H– how di–d they f– f– find out?"

Sam shrugged, glancing over at Dean again and then back to the road. He sighed. "I really have no idea, Dean. I didn't hear a lot of the conversation - just enough to know we had to get out of that hospital. But I know one thing: I don't think the hospital had anything to do with the insurance company or the cops linking us to the phony credit card scams. I think there's something else going on here."

Dean's head shot up, and he stared at Sam with an inquisitive look as he attempted to piece together what, exactly, it is that his brother was getting at. "Y– you th– ink i– it'–s a sssssset set up?" Dean asked, becoming increasingly frustrated at his choppy words. _I don't have time for this! Dammit. I need my words. _

Another shrug of Sam's shoulders tells Dean that his little brother hasn't had much time to stop and consider his own doubts and considerations. "It seems that way," Sam agreed, flipping on the car's turn signal and steering it towards the on ramp of another highway. "I'm just not sure who."

"Sssssooo n– now wh– at?" Dean asked, staring at the signs in front of them, trying to gain some orientation on where they are and where they might be going.

"Now," Sam sighed, squeezing the steering wheel tightly in frustration, "Now we drive as far away as we can get. And then stop and get you a wheelchair, and maybe a cane, and then get us some rest."

It was all Dean could do to keep from rolling his eyes and screaming that he wasn't some invalid; that he didn't need a wheelchair or a cane or anything else to help him get around. Inside, in his mind, he was still a fully competent, totally capable man, and it was exceedingly difficult to wrap his mind around the truth. But there was no denying the fact that he physically couldn't just get up and walk anywhere, and even simply getting into or out of the wheelchair took more thought and effort than most hunting expeditions of late. So instead of making a failing effort at insisting he didn't need the equipment, Dean just went silent, and moped.

Two hours later Sam finally turned the car off the highway and into the heart of a town, one not so large that he and Dean would make the news, but not so small that they couldn't blend in for a few hours. Sam made his way through the town, circling through the central streets for close to fifteen minutes before he finally spotted what he was looking for and pulled into the parking lot. Dean looked up groggily, having been napping for the last hour despite his struggle to stay awake, and noted the sign over the door Sam was staring at - 'Topnotch Medical Equipment Supplier.'

"I think you should just wait here," Sam said absently, and Dean wanted nothing more than to just climb out of the car in spite, proving to Sam once and for all that he was perfectly capable of doing exactly what he and Sam both knew to not be possible.

Dean nodded once, providing only the affirmative that he had heard his brother's suggestion, and not that he fully agreed with it. But now was not the time for an argument. He stayed in the car, pouting like a two year old as he watched Sam make his way towards the entrance of the store. Sam seemed uneasy, unsure of himself or his purpose and his steps faltered a little as he stepped into the building, but Dean could only see one thing as he glowered at Sam's retreating footsteps. His brother could walk, and he couldn't.

A bell over the door chimed loudly as Sam stepped through the doorway, causing him to jump slightly. His eyes scanned the room, carefully taking in all that the store had to offer before he made his move to collect the equipment. But before he could take a step towards anything his hearing was assaulted by an all too eager male voice as it asked him what he was looking for.

For half a second Sam contemplated turning tail and escaping from the building before he had to admit his reasons for being there. After all, so far Dean's injury was no more than a simple thought in both his and his brother's mind. Until he verbalized it, they still stood the chance of pretending the stroke had never happened. That's what they did, wasn't it - ignored things, avoided issues - and with Dean out of the hospital now there was no longer the need to pretend the clatter of carts and the noxious odor of 'sick' didn't exist. ...if only they could get past the fact that Dean physically couldn't get around without the equipment.

"My– my brother had a stroke," Sam spat out forcefully, taking the overeager salesman by surprise as he switched from stubborn, nervous silence to brutal honesty in a matter of seconds. "His right side; it's almost completely useless."

The man nodded thoughtfully as he extended a hand to Sam in greeting. "Then you've come to the right place," he offered warmly. "Name's Joe, and I know all there is to know 'bout the equipment in this here store. Let me see what his therapists suggested for him. Has he been measured yet?"

Sam did a double take, blinking nervously as he followed the man to the right of the store where rows of mobility equipment took up the majority of that side. "I'm sorry...measured?"

"Yeah," Joe continued. "They didn't write you any kind of prescription for a wheelchair or a walker? Your brother should have been measured before they sent you over here; you know, height, girth, any special needs."

Sam shook his head and the man looked at him incredulously for a minute before shaking his own head in disgust.

"You kids come from County?" he asked, crossing his arms in annoyance before continuing without ever giving Sam a chance to answer. The continuance was for the better, though, because it provided Sam with the appropriate excuse. "Those morons over there have no idea what their doing with their patients. If I was you, I'd get my brother out of their incompetent hands as soon as possible. Find yourself a real hospital before they screw him up for good."

Letting out a breath he'd been holding for too long, Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, they don't seem to know what they're doing over there. Just released my brother today and told me to get him a wheelchair before we got home. They put him in the car and that was that."

Joe shrugged, continuing towards the cache of wheelchairs on the far wall. "Alright, kid, tell you what I'll do. I'll get you set up with a chair; cane and a walker too, if you want them, and your brother can at least use that until he's able to be measured for the right size. He about your build?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Just a little shorter, but not by much," Sam agreed, finding it difficult to follow the man's meandering trail of words. He didn't seem to be much for allowing one thought to sink in much before moving on to the next and Sam was already overwhelmed.

Twenty minutes later Sam reemerged from the store laden down with a cacophony of equipment, feeling slightly uneasy about having once again used a phony credit card to pay for it all. Dean didn't react as he watched his brother load the back seat of the car with what he considered to be a waste of money, despite that fact that they would never pay for it. The cane, shiny and black went in first followed quickly by a folded up walker that looked too geriatric for comfort and Dean flinched. His interest piqued just a bit more when, after a leg immobilizer was tossed to the far side, Sam produced a set of hand weights and what seemed to be leg weights as well. The wheelchair went in last, its sleek blue aluminum frame sparkling against the setting sun and Dean groaned.

"It's just temporary," Sam assured him, knowing the groan came from Dean's ill-conceived desire to leave the chair, not to mention this whole nightmare, behind them. "We can't exactly go to a conventional therapist, but I promise we'll get you up and walking again no matter what it takes."

"Ffff– uck the ch– chair," Dean stammered as Sam climbed into the driver's seat and started the car.

Sam smiled, "Whatever you say, Dean. Just remember that when you're fighting to regain your footing. Don't go cussing me out, just keep cussing out the wheelchair."

Within minutes, they were back on the highway heading further west in search an out-of-the-way motel, one where they could hole up for a few days until Sam and Dean could figure out what to do about the cops on their trail. It was by sheer coincidence that they had a new collection of fake credit cards, ones that hadn't yet been used, and Sam could only hope they wouldn't give away their new location. It seemed ironic, escaping a jail sentence for credit card fraud by committing credit card fraud, but it couldn't be helped and Dean was in no condition to be camping out in the woods, hiding out of sight. Right now he needed a bed, and the only place they could go was a hotel.

The hotel of choice was a dinky, hole-in-the wall joint with only twelve units and a manual, carbon-copy style credit card machine that guaranteed them at least two days of peace and safety before the slips were claimed. Once again, Sam ordered Dean to stay in the car as he made his way across the gravel and dirt lot to the tiny little office at the far corner. After exchanging pleasantries with the haggard looking woman at the front desk he went about filling in the appropriate paper work, head down as he concentrated on reading the faded lettering on the mimeographed sheet. When Sam was finished, he handed the paperwork back to the desk clerk and accepted the keys as he glanced out the screen door, finally noticing what he should have seen minutes before. "Shit, Dean," he cursed loudly, frantically pocketing the keys. His heart sped up as he sprinted from the office without so much as a thank-you, and was across the lot in two seconds flat.


	9. Chapter 9

_It's a little short, but I had some time to write and I didn't want to leave you guys for too long with an evil cliff hanger. I can't promise the next update will come nearly as quickly, but at least this chapter doesn't end with a major cliffie. As always, thanks so much for the reviews. Keep feeding them to me. Enjoy!_

"Dean! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Sam didn't know how he'd managed to miss Dean climbing from the car, and he had no idea how Dean had managed to make it as far as he actually had, but now the older hunter was in a precarious position clinging to the outside of the passenger side door as though his life depended on it. And maybe it did; or at the very least the life he once knew. Fearless, capable Dean was about to be washed away, and along with it the little bit of confidence he still carried within himself, the minute he lost his stronghold on the black metal doorframe.

He struggled, fighting a losing battle against gravity and his uncooperative leg. At some point, Dean's right knee had buckled, sending him sailing toward the blacktop. He'd only managed to save himself from the embarrassment of playing kissy-face with the parking lot by the quick motions of his skilled left hand as it hooked over the doorframe. But despite his knowledge of the useless right leg, its collapse had caught Dean off guard and the left knee had followed suit. His awkward hold on the door meant he was unable to gain purchase of solid footing and the perilous position in which he hung promised an embarrassing tumble if he didn't correct the situation just so.

Sweat poured off of Dean's determined face as he struggled to right himself to no avail, and that determination switched to pure hatred as he suddenly felt himself being lifted from the door by none other that his baby brother. _This isn't the way it should be, Sammy. You're not supposed to be helping me. Ever. _Dean growled inside his mind, keeping the thought to himself only because he couldn't bear to struggle through his stilted words at the present moment. One failure was enough for the time being.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?" Sam demanded again as he lowered Dean back to the passenger seat. He didn't miss Dean's annoyed, not to mention strategically timed, jerk free of his grasp the minute his older brother was no longer in danger of falling, but Sam was wise enough to ignore it and simply release his hold without a fight.

Dean ignored the question, instead looking down at his feet and pretending that the small, barely noticeable, scuff mark on the toe of his left boot was important by Great Pyramid proportions. He studied it intently, moving his foot around to get a better look at it, angling the toe so it was in the fading sunlight. _Need to polish that_. The sentiment ran through his mind, but it never really claimed a place in his memory. Just a fleeting thought. Just something to take his mind off the more daunting thoughts of the day.

"Dean!" Sam's stern voice resonated against the sidewalls of his brain, but the only consideration he gave it was that he wished his brother would just shut the hell up for once. _Can't you see I'm hurting. Dammit, leave me alone._ But Sam wasn't easily shaken, and instead of backing off, he came on stronger, grabbing Dean's crestfallen face between his two strong hands and making his brother look directly at him.

"I asked you what the hell you thought you were doing, trying to get out of the car like that. Don't you realize you could have hurt yourself?" Sam tried desperately to convey anger in his tone. Because he was, angry that is, but more than anything else he was scared, and maybe a little annoyed at Dean's brash, take-no-prisoners attempt at escape - if that was, indeed, what he'd intended to do. But the anger and sternness in his voice soon faded to gentle understanding as Dean's hazel eyes finally fell down to meet his.

They'd lost their sparkle; that life that Dean always had in himself, in his soul, was gone. In place of the hope was fear. Desperation. "I d– don– t have t– t– ime t– to be sssssick," Dean finally answered, his eyes immediately leaving Sam's gaze once again and falling back to the ground. _Dammit, Sam, don't you get it? There are people after us. COPS. After us. And I'm just holding you back. I'm a liability. They never would have found us if it wasn't for me and my stupid brain going all wacky._ "I– I thhhh– ought I c– could do it,"

Sam's face softened, the features going all melted butter at the sight of Dean's own deflated face, and in an instant he knew what his brother was thinking. "Dean, you don't have to be the big brother all of the time," Sam insisted, once again turning Dean's face toward his own. "This mess isn't your fault. You didn't cause it. You didn't ask for the cops to chase after us. You didn't ask to have a stroke. And you sure as hell didn't ask for this life in the first place. Shit happens, big bro. You know it and I know it. But we just have to deal and move on. That's what we do."

"I c– can– t movvvve on f– from this," Dean answered matter-of factly. _I can't just shove this whole mess out of my mind and expect it to be gone. I can't shove through the pain like I usually do, Sammy, because there is no pain. I can't feel anything and I can't move._

"But you can," Sam insisted. "You're Dean Winchester. The baddest son of a bitch this side of the equator, and you will come back from this. You just have to want it bad enough."

Dean shook his head, unfazed by Sam's utter certainty of his abilities. He barely noticed the pride in Sam's words, the absolute hero complex that Sam had for him, as he drowned in self-pity. It was clear that he wasn't convinced, but Sam had not even the slightest clue as to why. It wasn't that Dean didn't want this whole fucking scenario to disappear into the void of bad dreams and nightmarish experiences that plagued the world at large. But he couldn't just fix everything by wanting it to go away. Because wanting something bad enough, wishing for it to happen didn't ever mean it was actually _going_ to happen. If that was the case, then the demon would be dead, Jess and their mother would still be alive, Sam would be studying for the bar exam right now and the whole family would be sitting around in their nice, happy, apple pie life with absolutely no knowledge that evil existed. But that wasn't the case, and it never would be the case. Dean had learned that lesson from the ripe age of four when he'd spent weeks, every waking minute for over three weeks, wanting and wishing that his mother would return. And he'd learned it again the first time their father dragged him along on one of his hunts and Dean had spent the entire night cowering in the shadow of a bush, wishing that he would never have to go on another hunt again. He'd been six. And if that wasn't enough, the lesson had been hammered home the night Sam left for Stanford to their father's frightening tirade of 'Don't ever come back!', and Dean had spent the next two years wishing the argument had never taken place in the first place, and wanting Sam to return. Sure, Sam had come back eventually, but it wasn't because Dean had asked him to, and he seriously doubted that Sam would be sitting in front of him right now if Jess hadn't been killed that night.

So no, he wasn't going to put all his effort into wanting to get on his feet bad enough because that wasn't the way things worked for Dean Winchester. He could almost picture the day the big guy upstairs was handing out lucky breaks as though it was some big cosmic joke. _Anyone who wants a free ride through life step forward now - not so fast, Dean._ Nope; there were no free rides for Dean Winchester. Everything Dean had ever gotten in his life he'd gotten because he'd worked for it. Worked hard. And this one was no different. If he wanted to get back on his feet he had to take charge, and that was exactly what he intended to do.

He was going to work damn hard to get back on his feet, pacing back and forth in a cramped hotel room if that was all the space he had to work with. He would spend days, months if he had to, focusing on his hand and making it work. He would stand in front of the mirror reciting stupid tongue twisters and enunciating his letter sounds for as long as it would take to get his speech back up to par. Whatever it took, Dean would make it happen, and no matter how many falls he took or words he tripped over, Dean was going to be one hundred percent again. But he would get it through hard work and determination; never desire.

He nodded his agreement to his kid brother, running a hand through his hair as he did so. "I c– can mmmmake this w– work," Dean announced, and then immediately reconsidered. "W– we c– an mmmmake this w–work."

A long sigh, an exhale of air from tensed lungs, was released through Sam's mouth as he stood and prepared himself to return to the driver's seat. And then he stopped short when he saw what Dean was doing, a quick question of what the man's intentions were crossing his mind as confusion marred features that had contained relief just seconds earlier.

"Dean–" Sam spoke in a warning tone, about ready to scold his brother as though he were a child.

But Dean ignored Sam, jaw set in determination as he inched himself back out of the car that Sam had so carefully made sure he was settled into. His hand gripped the doorframe, readying to pull himself up when Sam spoke again.

"Dean, we just went through this. You're not going to be able to just get up out of the car and walk. It's going to take time."

"And you said you would help me," Dean replied pitifully, still working himself out of the car. "You promised to help me get back on my feet."

Sam nodded hesitantly. "Right, I did. And I will; just as soon as we get our stuff into the room. We should be safe here for the next few days before we need to disappear again, and I will happily help you as much as you want in that time. But we haven't even found our room yet, Dean."

"I c– can wwwwalk t–to the rrrroom," Dean persisted. _I'm not riding anywhere if I can walk instead. Being lazy won't get me anywhere._ "Llllet's w– walk and then y–you can g–get the c– car lllat-later."

"Dean..." Sam's voice changed, now apprehensive, and he scuffed the soles of his shoes against the blacktop, refusing to make eye contact. _This isn't a good idea._

And then Dean was pissed. His arm, fist clenched, slammed hard against the window to get Sam's attention. "Help mmm– me or g– get the f– fuck out of mmmy w– way," Dean spat with enough venom that Sam balked.

It surprised Sam when he realized that for the first time since the stroke Sam didn't hear the stuttering that constantly plagued Dean's speech. It was still there, but now it was just a sound. He finally _heard_ _Dean_, and whether he'd realized he'd been thinking it before, Sam no longer thought of Dean as crippled. Dean was determined, yes; stubborn, hell yeah, but he was far from crippled. His brother was simply fighting yet another demon in his life, and like always, Dean was going to win.

Sam sighed, coming to the realization that the only way this would work was if he followed Dean's leaf. He wouldn't resist any longer, and to prove that, Sam went to the back door and yanked it open. "OK," he agreed. "But if we're doing this, we're doing it the safe way."

"Fffffine." Dean nodded, and waited patiently while Sam pulled the immobilizer and the walker from the back seat, leaning the walker carefully against the side of the car before focusing on Dean's leg.

Dean didn't like the immobilizer, and he hated the walker with a passion, but he soon accepted them both when he realized he could use them to his advantage. Hating them took energy, but wanting them gone gave him power. If he focused his attention on how to get rid of the unwanted supplies instead of focusing on how much he hated them in the first place, he would be walking in no time.

And Sam was right, although he'd never admit that. Right now his leg, his knee, just wasn't strong enough to support his weight. But wearing the immobilizer that Sam now had strapped tightly to his leg, Dean would be able to get from the car to the room almost thirty feet away. And the walking was how he would get stronger.

"You ready?" Sam asked, positioning the walker in front of Dean and opening the door wider.

Dean nodded, too intent on the task at hand to deal with his words. He gripped the handle of the walker tightly in his left hand and waited for Sam to slide his arm under his right arm. With only a little waver, Dean was on his feet, wobbling slightly as he tried to gain his balance. The walker wasn't rigged the way the one at the hospital was, so Dean only had control of one side of the equipment while Sam had to remain at his right side, holding him up under the armpit and guiding the other side of the walker.

Somehow, in a blur of hesitant steps and dragging feet, a stumble here and there, and even one almost nosedive, the brothers made it to room 8 exhausted but otherwise no worse for wear.

Dean was ecstatic, having made it a distance three times farther than he'd ever gone in therapy, knowing this was just the beginning. But as high as he was floating, he was fading fast and upon entering the small room he willingly allowed Sam to lead him to the nearest bed and collapsed heavily upon it. The age and visible wear of the room barely registered as Dean scooted himself up to the head of the creaky bed and leaned back against the stack of pillows Sam had fluffed for him. His eyes were closed before Sam had left the room, and by the time Sam returned from moving the car Dean was dead to the world.

Sleep came just as hard and fast for Sam when he flopped down on the remaining bed just minutes after returning to the room, but it didn't last nearly as long and less than an hour later his nap was over while Dean continued to allow his battered body to heal, unaware of the rest of the world. With nothing better to do, Sam popped open the laptop with the intention researching their predicament. He was no stranger to hacking into police files and sealed documents, so this shouldn't be too difficult. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to concentrate, and he found himself worrying more about what they were _going_ to do rather than what had already happened. They needed to get away; put a giant distance between themselves and the cops; somehow figure out a way to disappear entirely. Because he could only assume that if they'd been found once, they could be found again.

Several hours later, when Dean finally awoke, Sam had a plan formulated. There was just one slight problem, which Dean voiced with too much of a gleam in his eye for Sam's comfort. And the solution Dean provided did little to ease Sam's tension.

"Ssssammy, w– we need c– cash," Dean said as he stuffed another spoonful of Cheesy Baked Potato Soup into his mouth. "And I nnnneed a b– b– beer. L– let's f– f– ind a b– ar."


	10. Chapter 10

**_Hey guys (hangs head in shame), I'm embarrassed by how long it took me to get back to this. I suffered a bout of Writer's block there for a while, and then I couldn't get Hanging On By a Thread out of my head, and I ended up deciding it was better to just get that out of my head or I would never finish this. But I'm back now, and totally ready to devote myself into this story. Expect an update about once a week until we're finished. I promise, I'm in this for the long haul now. For those of you still with me, thanks for holding on. I'm truly appreciative of all the encouragement to get back with this. Hope the new chapter is worth the wait. _**

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Sam asked for the twenty second time - Dean had counted - as they approached the front door of the seedy biker bar Dean had picked for their endeavor. The bright neon sign over the door proclaiming BEER and POOL along with a smaller, hand lettered sign underneath announcing LADIES NIGHT proved a trifecta for the older hunter and minutes earlier he'd nodded his head in the bar's direction to tell Sam to stop.

Dean could sense that Sam was nervous and apprehensive for his welfare, and while he would never admit it to his mother henning little brother, Dean was nervous and apprehensive for himself as well. But Dean was the big brother, and big brother's were supposed to be fearless. So he put on his game face and motioned for Sam to push him through the door, although not before Sam noticed the quick once over Dean gave himself as he searched for anything blatantly embarrassing on his body as he pulled his bum arm into his lap. Sam pretended not to notice, but a hand went to Dean's shoulder, a small form of reassurance, as he shoved Dean and the wheelchair forward into the bar..

They settled themselves at the only pool table still available and Sam walked off for a minute to select a cue. "I guess I should do a little warm-up first," Sam announced, awkwardly attempting to find a good hold around his broken finger and leaning over the table to break. "It's been a while. I'm a bit rusty."

If he hadn't looked over at Dean right then, Sam would have missed the daggers shooting out of Dean's narrowed eyes and the result probably would have been disastrous. But he did look up, and he saw the look, and all of a sudden Sam felt his stomach do flip-flops as the realization struck him. When Dean suggested this little outing, he'd never had any intention of sitting idly by as Sam did his darndest to hustle pool. Sam's mind swam. _He can't play...can he? He'd need to do it left handed, and with only the one hand. Nothing to bridge the cue. And he's shorter - almost three feet shorter than normal. It's impossible...isn't it?_ But even Sam had to admit that Dean played pool left-handed, wrong handed, better than most people played with their dominant hand. Better than Sam played with his dominant hand - that was for damn sure.

"Uhhh..just kidding?" Sam tested, his mouth twitching up into a nervous half smile. "You want to try?" he asked, handing over the pool cue to Dean. He backed away as the older hunter grabbed the stick from his nervous hands, and turned away just long enough to grab a pool cue of his own before returning to Dean.

Dean continued to stare expectantly at his younger brother, awkwardly fingering the pool cue that hung, just a little too long to be easily controlled, from his single hand. Sam stared back, confused as to what more Dean could possibly want, or need. The older hunter rolled his eyes, cocky to a fault and stammered out his request. "B– b– eer," he insisted, angling his chin in the direction of the bar.

Much to Dean's dismay and annoyance, Sam shook his head vigorously. "No can do big brother. Doctor's orders - alcohol won't mix well with the meds you're on. You can have water or a soda, but no beer. ...and no liquor," Sam added as he watched Dean's eye's light up as his mind began to work overtime.

"Ssssammm-y," Dean whined, drawing his lip into the infamous Sammy pout and coming almost as close to its perfection as Sam himself.

But having invented the Sammy pout, Sam was immune to its magic and he crossed his arms with a smug smirk, only barely managing to hide the sympathy he felt for his brother. "_Root_ beer it is," Sam said with a smirk as he sauntered off toward the bar.

Returning several minutes later Sam set the bubbling brown liquid in front of a scowling Dean and placed his own water on a table nearby. He'd been tempted to get himself a beer just for spite, but Dean didn't deserve that and Sam wasn't like that.

"You want a practice round?" Sam asked, trying to take Dean's mind off of the lack of anything potent in the glass. He didn't wait for Dean to reply as he arranged the balls in the rack and then removed it. "Can you break?"

_Can I break?_ Dean thought to himself smugly as he balanced the cue across his lap and slowly maneuvered the wheelchair closer to the pool table, using his good foot and arm to propel the chair forward. He lifted the cue to the table and lined it up with the cue ball and then stopped, laying the stick on the table and looking at Sam again. _I need more balance, _he'd established, noting his shaky hands as he tried to steady the aim. "B– b– reak," he requested of Sam and then shook his head as he realized that, once again, he'd mis-spoken. "B–ridge," he tried again and this time Sam sprung to action, heading off in search of a bridge that Dean could use to steady his cue stick.

Returning soon after with the requested piece of equipment, Sam stood back and waited patiently as Dean lined up his shot, holding his breath and mentally preparing a consolation speech for when Dean missed. After awkwardly stabilizing the bridge against his side and under his right arm, Dean drew back on the stick with his left and let loose with a loud crack as stick met ball. Sam's stomach lurched upwards into his throat, guilt overtaking his emotions when he realized just how wrong he'd been to underestimate his brother. Dean may not have actually sunk any balls, but they were effectively scattered all over the table; an excellent shot from Sam's perspective, and he hated himself for doubting Dean.

"Dude, that was awesome!" Sam exclaimed, clapping his brother on the back as he circled the table to examine the older man's handiwork. "I so totally didn't...I mean, I thought..." He paused, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before finally settling on, "that was great."

Dean shrugged, eyeing Sam and clearly asking 'you doubted me?' without ever saying a word and Sam slunk wordlessly to the other side of the table as he lined up his own shot.

He picked a hard shot on purpose, ignoring the six ball sitting just barely on the edge of the corner pocket and instead setting his sights on number thirteen, resting against the far side of the table and nestled snugly in between ball number two and the infamous eight ball. The shot required him to hit the ball at an angle, hit the opposite side of the table and then make it ricochet back into the cluster of three, leaving the eight ball behind and sending both the two and the thirteen towards the center pocket, although only the thirteen would have enough momentum to actually make it in. Dean could have made the shot easily; Sam could not. So it was no surprise when Sam came thisclose to sending the eight ball into the right corner pocket instead and completely forfeiting the game before any balls actually made it off the table.

Dean was hard pressed to ignore the blatant fouled move his brother had made, knowing full well the kid knew he could never make the shot and wondering why he hadn't gone for an easier shot. If he'd allowed himself to think it, Dean would have easily concluded that Sam had done it on purpose, to give Dean an edge, but then Dean would have to admit that he needed an edge. And that just wasn't going to happen.

A smug smile plastered itself back onto Dean's face, although not without a little effort, and he realigned himself to take his next shot. He went for the six ball that Sam had left behind, wanting an easy warm-up shot before taking on the rest of the table. Slipping the ball into the pocket with ease, Dean then went for another ball, and then another, sinking four in a row before he missed. There was no mistaking the struggle's Dean had lining up his shots now, but he still seemed to pull them off without much indication that he was doing it one handed or three feet shorter and before they knew it, they'd played through the first game. As Dean finally sank the eight ball, Sam looked up for the first time since the round began and noticed just how crowded the bar had become. Although Dean had whipped Sam's butt, and not entirely for Sam's lack of trying, his handicap had slowed the game time significantly. The large room was now flooded with Dean's third, and greatest, weakness.

Girls. Clusters of girls of all shapes and sizes. Sam took the time to study them all, noticing the multitude of gawkers within the new crowd. For all the attempts they'd made at hiding their prying eyes, they might as well have had signs on their ample bosoms announcing that, _yes, we're staring and gossiping, and no, there's nothing you can do about it. _It angered Sam to know that they didn't even seem to care that they were being obvious staring at the wheelchair and Dean's uncoordinated movements. But then again, maybe they weren't only staring at that. Dean could have entered the bar with no legs and hooks for arms and drool rolling down his chin, yet all he needed to do was flex those well-toned chest muscles and glance up at them with his soulful, haunted eyes and they would turn to putty.

But Dean wasn't giving them the signature 'Dean Winchester gaze'; as a matter of fact he had yet to even look up. For the first time since Sam could remember, the first time since, well...ever, Dean wasn't even registering the fact that females were in the room at all. And that fact scared Sam more than ever, but he quickly forced it to the back of his mind as he noticed the two burly biker dudes walking their way. Dean's bait was about to offer itself up on a silver platter.

But they didn't stop at Dean. In fact, they barely glanced down at him as they approached Sam, the larger of the two leaning casually against the table before addressing Sam. "You feel like playing a real game?" he asked, motioning towards the pool table with a nod of his chin.

Sam arched his eyebrows, surprised that it was he, of the two of them, that they would pick to challenge. "You want to play a game with me?" he questioned, pretending not to notice the scowl that graced Dean's face just from that simple question.

"You got someone else in mind?" the guy asked, crossing his arms against his chest so that the muscles bulged and the sleeves of his t-shirt strained.

Sam nodded in Dean's direction. "I'm just here to play with my brother. He's the pool man, not me."

Two sets of eyes traveled warily downward to the man sitting awkwardly in the wheelchair, trying desperately to build himself up into someone worth the challenge.

"Him?" the shorter of the two asked in surprise. He missed the death stare Dean shot his way as he looked back towards Sam. But death stare or not, Sam was quick to also notice the hurt that flashed across Dean's face at the ill-leveled jab.

Sam had to cover, knowing that he had to play up Dean's disability in order to draw the facade properly despite the pain it may cause his brother. Dean knew it too, and he offered a slight nod of his head to tell Sam it would be OK.

"I didn't say he was great at it," Sam defended his earlier statement. "I'm just saying he's the one who likes to play. You two want to play a game that's fine by me."

The larger man snorted, eying Dean suspiciously. "Do-you-want-to-play-a-game?" he asked, speaking loud and slow, enunciating his words as he leaned down to be on Dean's level.

It took everything Dean had in himself not to reel back and throw a punch straight to the guy's nose. Instead, he smirked ruthlessly, deciding to kick the guy's butt on the pool table instead. He nodded his acceptance of the offer, choosing not to demean himself more by stuttering out a response. Instead, he raised the pool cue and motioned to the triangle of balls already set up for a fresh game. _You break, Brutus._

The giant understood the motion and took his shot, scattering the balls over the table and putting one of the solids into the corner pocket. He dropped two more before missing and turning the table over to Dean.

Dean eyed the available balls and picked himself an easy shot, awkwardly dropping the ball into the rightful pocket and then purposefully missing the next shot when he determined there to be no "possible" shots.

That went on for the remainder of the game, Dean taking the easy shots and throwing the hard ones and he ended up losing by three balls. But considering his physical state, and the fact that his newest challenger clearly hadn't been paying attention to who won the game between Dean and Sam, it didn't surprise Dean when 'Brutus' began clapping him on the back in amazement.

"You're not too bad there, man. Where'd you learn to play like that?" Disbelief was evident in the man's voice as his speech continued to be slow and enunciated and the boom in his voice could be heard halfway across the room.

Dean glared back at the guy, wanting nothing more than to smack the superiority right off the guy's assuming face because the way he talked to Dean clearly told Dean that he believed him to be stupid. Wheelchair equals retarded. "D– d– dad t– taught mmmme, b– b– before mmmmy s– s– troke," he admitted, giving the vaguest possible answer and wincing at his stuttered words, wondering if he'd done the right thing to announce to a perfect stranger what had happened when he could barely admit it to himself.

The guy flinched, maybe realizing his mistake or maybe just realizing he'd just been called out. The kid in the chair wasn't dumb like he thought, but he was still limited. He may be good enough to clear the table with his kid brother letting him win, but he wasn't good enough to beat a real pool player.

"Well it was real fun playing with you," 'Brutus' said, backing up slowly.

Dean couldn't let him leave. They needed money. "Hhhhow 'b– bout annnnotherrrr gammme?"

The guy stopped, cocked his head and stared at Dean as he contemplated the offer.

"T– t– twennnty b– bucksss?"

'Brutus' shrugged. "Yeah, sure, I guess." He returned to the table and re-set the balls, gently easing the triangle from the newly formed cluster. "You want to break this time?"

Dean eyeballed the shot and took it, again scattering the balls around the table without sinking anything. He backed up, allowing the competition to clear two shots before moving in for another shot of his own. The game ended with only one of Dean's balls on the table, but 'Brutus sank the eight ball, winning the game.

Their twenties lay side by side on the edge of the table and Dean pushed them both to the winner, about to suggest another game, but 'Brutus had other ideas. He reached over, claiming his own Franklin, but pushing Dean's back at him. "I can't take your money, buddy. You keep it."

Dean shook his head adamantly and shoved the bill back at his opponent. _You won fair and...well, you won. Take the damn money and play me again. _

"Sorry, man. It just don't feel right. You just keep your money. Thanks for the game." With that, the man patted Dean condescendingly on the shoulder and walked off, muttering something to his friend that Dean was certain was about him.

Sam sighed, kneeling down in front of his brother and trying to tear his gaze away from the declined twenty dollar bill that still sat on the edge of the pool table. He didn't want to be the bearer of bad news, but someone had to say it and Dean sure as hell wouldn't. "Look, man, no one's gonna play you for money tonight," he apologized, unable to look his brother in the eyes. "Maybe we should just go home. It's late...and I'm tired.

Dean looked at his feet in disgust. "Thhhhey s– s– see mmme as c– crip– pled,"

"Come on, bro, you just gotta give yourself some time. You'll be on your feet in no time."

"Thhhey f–fffeeeel s– s– sorrrrry ffffooooor mmmme," he stuttered, not hearing anything Sam had to say.

"Dean, no," Sam protested, shocked at the words and the perception of his brother. "They just..." He halted, unsure what to say. Dean was right, he could feel the pity oozing off the lugs that had left his brother in the lurch after beating him at pool. But he couldn't admit that to the older man, couldn't allow him to lose the hope and fight he'd developed throughout this ordeal. They were on the run from the cops, seeking out whoever or whatever had ratted them out, and the last thing he needed was Dean sinking back into a pit of despair right now. But he didn't know what to say that Dean wouldn't read as a lie. Sam knew Dean better than anyone, and he was certain Dean reciprocated those feeling back on him. He'd never been successful at lying to the older man, and he doubted he'd be able to start now.

"They'rrrre w– worn...w– what?" Dean demanded, impatiently waiting for Sam to finish his thought.

"They're jerks," Sam finally finished, knowing the statement to be true. "Don't let them get to you. Come on, man. Let's get you home."

Unable to look his brother in the eye anymore, Sam stood and circled the chair. He gripped the handles and started to push Dean back to the entrance, but found himself met by resistance in the wheel almost immediately. Sam looked down to see Dean's good hand gripped tightly against the wheel of the chair while his foot pushed steadily against the floor.

"I nnno g–go yet," Dean insisted, turning his head around to look Sam in the eyes. "Thhhey w– w– won't scarrrre m– me."

Sam melted, encouraged by Dean's determination. Crossing his arms across his chest, Sam returned Dean's gaze and raised an eyebrow. "What do you have in mind?"

"Mmmore p– p– ool," he queried, turning on the puppy dog eyes. "G– good therap– py."

Nodding his agreement, Sam followed Dean's slow journey back to the table they had just vacated. "Alright, I'm just gonna go hit the head and I'll be back in a minute. Will you be okay by yourself?" Sam asked, realizing that he'd need to relieve himself if they were staying much longer.

Dean nodded, determination set in his face. "I'll b– be fffun...fffine." Sam nodded and disappeared to the bathroom, and Dean immediately turned around and headed for the bar. He'd been hoping to get rid of Sam for a few minutes, and this couldn't have been a better opportunity if he'd planned it himself. He needed a drink like nobody's business, and if he was lucky he could have it down before Sam returned.

He hadn't moved so fast since before the stroke, but somehow Dean managed to book hs way across the floor in record time. It helped that people jumped out of his way as they saw him coming, and he tried not to dwell on the fear and sorrow on their faces as he used the opening to his advantage, shuffling his way to the bar with only the use of one foot and one hand.

The bartender was in front of him immediately, awkwardly looking over his head as he asked, "What can I getcha man?"

For a split second, Dean wondered if the harried bartended had approached him so quickly to get rid of him faster. But he pushed the thought out of his head as he stammered his order. "Jjjjay D– d– dee. D– doub– ble shot," he demanded, trying to maintain a measure of cool despite his noticeable verbal and physical difficulties.

The barkeep nodded and disappeared from view as he grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels Whiskey and a tall shot glass. He returned a minute later, filling the glass to the brim and scooting it to the edge of the mahogany bar. Dean reached for it, downing the liquid in one long gulp and then planting it back where he'd gotten it, nodding his head for another hit. The man filled the glass again, amber liquid spilling over the edge of the glass as he filled it beyond its capacity. Again, Dean downed the Whiskey with a loud 'ahhh' before planting the twenty the pool thugs had rejected minutes earlier beside the empty glass. And his heart sank as the bartender shook his head, scooting the bill closer to Dean.

"It's on the house, buddy."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "I c– c– can pppay," he insisted, shoving the Franklin back to the barkeep.

"I'm sure you can, dude, but I can't take your money. It just don't feel right." Instead of taking the money, the man poured another double shot of JD and passed the drink to Dean. He couldn't resist the proffered drink, taking another chug before resuming the fight to pay. But once the warm liquid poured down his throat and was comfortably swirling inside his stomach, Dean picked up where he'd left off, pushing the bill back to its rightful owner.

They sat there for a minute with their eyes locked, Dean versus the overly muscled barkeep in the plain black t-shirt. Neither one was willing to back down from the battle of wills they'd engaged in, and finally Dean had had enough. With a sigh of frustration and determination, Dean used his good arm to plant his foot on the floor and then grabbed onto the mahogany bar, levering himself up from the wheelchair. It was slow going, his awkwardness on full display to all the patrons of the overcrowded bar. He slipped back into the wheelchair twice before the dumbstruck bartender finally managed to make his mouth work.

"Whoa, dude, should you be doing that?" he asked in a squeaky tone that screamed of discomfort.

Dean glared back, offering a lopsided scowl as his only response while he continued to pry himself to his feet inch, by agonizing inch.

The guy took his eyes off of Dean to scan the rest of the bar in a frantic search for someone who belonged with this customer. He had a vague recollection of seeing the kid come in with another guy; tall, shaggy hair, and when his eyes finally settled on a patron matching that description he knew he'd found the right guy.

The kid was clearly frantic, spinning in circles as he searched the crowded room for his missing charge. Why he hadn't yet thought to look at the wet bar, the barkeep wasn't sure, but he was sure as hell not going to let the searching continue any longer. Looking back to the row of patrons surrounding his domain, the man spotted one of his regulars and hastily asked the young woman to grab the other guy while he tried to get this one to stand down.

Returning to face Dean, the bartender placed his large hands on the shiny, wet wood, shoulders squared and elbows bent at a ninety degree angle. "Kid, please just sit back down. I can't have you hurting yourself in my bar."

Dean bit down on his lower lip, desperately trying to keep his cool. He couldn't look at the guy for fear of losing his balance, so he opted for vocals instead. "I nnnot c—c—crip…led," he spat out just as Sam finally made it to his side.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing?" Sam demanded anxiously, voice shooting into the whiny mothering voice he'd become all too adept at pulling off lately. He immediately reached out, arms sliding behind Dean's back and under his armpits for support as he lowered the older man back down into the wheelchair.

No sooner than he was sitting again, Dean jerked out of Sam's grasp, glaring at his little brother with a fiery gaze. "D—didnnn't wwwwant to ssssit!" he spat angrily. "Nnno—"

"Dean, what are you thinking?" Sam interrupted, looking from his brother to the bartender for some sort of explanation.

The bartender shrugged innocently, relief clearly written on his face now that he was no longer responsible for the kid in front of him. "Dude wanted a drink. I gave it to him and told him it was on the house, and he spazzed. I was just trying to be nice."

"Yeah, there's a lot of that going around right now," Sam muttered under his breath as a clear understanding of what had just happened came into his mind. He felt torn, a direct war with his conscience over whether he should scold Dean for having a drink in the first place when he had clearly said 'no' early, or whether he should let it slide due to the unexpected circumstances that surrounded the situation.

One look at his brother, slumped to the side in the wheelchair, his unfeeling limbs laying in awkward positions across the floor and his lap, eyes more than slightly glazed from the alcohol, Sam made his decision. He and Dean would definitely talk – there was no doubt about that. But he wasn't about to embarrass him more by scolding him in front of a roomful of people.

"I think we need to go now, Dean," Sam said more softly as he picked up Dean's leg by the knee and seated it gently on the foot plate. He could feel the dozens of eyes watching them, waiting to see the freak lose it on the bartender once more, or better yet, to see him try to stand again and go sprawling across the ground in his effort. People made Sam sick – their prying eyes and morbid sense of what made for good entertainment – and he had no desire to subject Dean to that for any longer than was necessary. They had both had enough for one night.

He stood back up, satisfied that Dean was at least not going to fall out of the chair, and turned to the bartender. He shoved the bill back across the bar and glared at the man, creating shivers down his overly muscular frame. "Do me a favor," Sam growled through clenched teeth, speaking just soft enough that Dean couldn't hear him. "Take the damn money. And the next time my brother tries to pay you for his drinks don't belittle him by refusing to take the money. It's a matter of pride, dude. Just remember that."

The subtle nod the bartender offered was enough for Sam and he returned his attention to the sullen figure of his older brother. He grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and pushed, thinking he couldn't get the two of them out of there fast enough. Sam could feel his mind racing as it tried to wrap itself around what had just happened and what he was going to do about it.

Any other day Dean would have gone wild, taking advantage of the bartender's generosity with everything he could. But that was before; before the stroke, before it took every ounce of concentration just to sit up straight, before he sounded like he had a mouth full of marbles and a stutter that would give Daffy Duck a run for his money. The fact that Dean had taken such offense to his money being refused scared Sam. _That_ was something he could relate to, something he could understand. It was so hard for him to know what Dean was going through. He felt like an outsider, looking in through the tiny peephole of Dean's life. But that, the understanding of pride and what it felt like to have that taken away, that was something he knew.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Well Thanks so much for the wonderful response, even if I did take me forever to get back into this. It's nice to know some of you are still out there. As I said before, expect a new update about once a week. Thanks again. Here's chapter 11...**_

"Dean, what happened back there? Please...you've gotta talk to me." Sam broached the subject quietly, desperately. It was the third time he'd tried to engage Dean, the third time he'd pushed for an answer as they wound their way through town.

And for the third time, Dean barely acknowledged Sam's question, sliding drunken, narrowed eyes over in Sam's direction for a half second before returning to their sullen vigil out the window at the darkened sky and empty streets. His head rested against the cold glass pane, the only thing keeping his weak body from sliding down in the leather bench seat. He had pulled his limp hand across his lap the minute Sam had planted him in the passenger seat and now he played with the numb fingers, unconsciously massaging them.

Sam sighed, running his hand through his hair and holding the ends for several seconds as his mind raced over the nights events. He felt lost, useless. There were no words that could consol Dean, nothing he could think to say that might make things better. Things were what they were, and it didn't matter how much he tried to convince Dean that that was a fluke - that it just happened that both the bartender and the brute of a pool player were abnormal in the way they had treated him.

Dean wasn't stupid. Sam had seen the understanding in his eyes clear as day; he'd been treated 'special' because he was different. And as much as Dean wanted to protest that he wasn't a cripple, that he wasn't disabled, there was no mistaking the opposite as true. Dean _was_ different. He _was _crippled. He _was_ disabled. Sam hoped to God and Buddha and Jehovah and any other savior out there - spiritual or otherwise - that might possibly manage to change that for his brother. But for now, in the eyes of the medical world and the eyes of the lay world, Dean was disabled. And he didn't know how to make that better - emotionally or physically.

So what the hell was he supposed to do? Parking the car in front of their room, Sam glanced once more at his brother before leaning back in the seat. He needed a minute to regroup before helping Dean from the car. They sat there in silence for a while, only the sounds of soft breathing breaking the tension that hung heavy in the air. When Sam was finally prepared to face his brother he grabbed for the door handle, pausing once more as he debated over trying for conversation again, before deciding he needed to get the older man inside first.

There was barely a reaction when Sam pulled the passenger door open, and he found himself quickly reaching out to catch Dean when the support of the window was removed from his head, the combination of injury and too much liquor wreaking havoc on his stability. Sam righted him against the seat, wincing at the dull void of an expression on his brother's face before silently reaching into the back seat to retrieve the wheelchair.

"I d-don't wwwwant that," Dean finally spoke, his monotone voice barely above a whisper.

"Dean, we've been through this once already today. You can't–"

"Ssssam p-pleassse," he protested, slightly more forcefully, clearly frustrated. "I j-just w-w-wannnt to b-be lllleft alone."

Shoving the chair forward more, Sam nodded. "Fine, Dean. I'll leave you alone as soon as we get inside. Come on."

"Nnnno! H-herrre, llleave m-m-me hhhere. I nnneed t-t-to thhhhink."

"Dean, I can't leave you here..." Sam's voice trailed off, leaving out the unspoken word.

Hurt clouded Dean's eyes as he shifted his gaze to his protective brother, the realization sinking in that Sam had no more faith in him than the rest of the world. Rationally, he knew Sam was just looking out for him as he would do for Sam if the situations were reversed. But rationality had flown out the window when Dean had been forced into this nightmare of a situation, and he no longer saw things the way he would have otherwise. What he saw was a brother who saw him as an invalid, completely incapable even of being left alone to _sit_ in his car. The thought tore him apart.

"P-p-please, Ssssam," he begged, locking his gaze on Sam as he implored the younger man to do as he asked. "B-b-be ffffine. I'll c-c-call you."

More time passed as Sam fought an internal struggle over the right thing to do. He knew he had to give his brother some freedom, knew he needed to feel capable, and there really was no reason why he couldn't leave Dean alone for a while. Except for the obvious reason; that Dean was in no shape to care for himself, to protect himself. What if he needed something? What if he tried to do too much and Sam wasn't there to stop him? What if he got hurt again?

"Sssam," Dean repeated, drawing his brother from his rumination. Sam blinked, studying the supplication in his brother's face and suddenly realized he had to allow this. Dean wasn't as deep into depression as he'd first assumed; quite the contrary actually. Sure, his brother was clearly upset about being treated so rudely at the bar, but instead of allowing himself to wallow in self pity, Dean was actually focusing on his recovery. He just needed time to figure out how. He needed to remember who he was before he could figure out how to become that man again. And he needed to be alone to do that, needed to feel some semblance of dignity as he worked through his plan for recovery.

"Alright, Dean. Alright. You can stay here. I'll go and you can stay here and you can call me when you're ready to come in. I'll wait, Dean. I'll be just inside and I'll wait. Okay?" He was rambling. He knew he was. But he couldn't stop; this was his brother, for crying out loud. His brother who could barely move and stood no chance of making it from the car to the motel room without help. His brother who was begging him to leave him alone all the same; who wanted to be left alone so he could reconcile his thoughts and feelings in the middle of the night. And Sam was going to let him.

Dean nodded, slowly. Grateful. And watched Sam walk away, taking note of the fact that Sam had left the passenger side door wide open and that he also left the room door open. He smiled to himself and grabbed onto that bit of connection that Sam had maintained, latching on tight to it because he himself knew he would need Sam eventually.

But for now all that mattered was convincing himself that this life was worth fighting for. In his line of work there were two options, and this - this semblance of half dead - was not one of those options. He could choose death, or he could choose life. All or nothing.

Right in front of him, in the glove box, was his nine millimeter. It would be so easy just to end it all right here and now, but that was too easy. It left too many variables. What would happen to Sam? What would happen to him? Where would he go?

Sam would kill him himself if the younger man even had an inkling that Dean had considered turning the gun on himself, and the knowledge of this immediately had Dean pushing that thought to the farthest reaches of his mind. Sammy was too important to leave behind, unprotected, vulnerable. Which meant there was no other option but to live. To fight. To make himself whole again.

Brutus' reaction to him back at the bar, the bartender's misguided beneficence, the fact that he could barely sit up straight let alone be much of a protector, were all valid reasons to fight for his life back. That afternoon had already helped Dean to determine the need to fight, but the evening had given him a focus. A reason.

Dean formed a plan in his mind; one that he would eventually share with Sam but for now just needed to establish. His timeline included speech, leg mobility, hand mobility. But most important, Dean desired humanity - he wanted the world to see him as a _person_ instead of an affliction. He would do everything to get his life back, but even if he never regained anything he once had Dean still wanted to be seen as Dean.

Sighing, Dean rested his head against the cool leather of the bench seat, wondering just how he was going to accomplish such a feat when everything in his life was so much the opposite. He wanted dignity, but was left with Sam bathing him and washing him. He wanted power, but was left with a barely mobile body and a voice that wavered on gibberish. He wanted to be a hero, but could barely make the word connect from his addled brain to his drooling lips. That was the key; the focus. His words. His speech.

They were on the run, and didn't have the time to stop and focus 24-7 on mobility. That would have to wait. But speech...speech he could work on day and night. And speech was the key to understanding and belief. He figured he could deal with pitying eyes as they took in his immobile body - although he would work on that, too, as much as time and situation warranted. But it was the voice, the stammers and the mis-spoken words that clearly had the rest of the world dubbing him retarded, incapable, slow. _That_ was what he wanted more than anything to prove everyone wrong about.

And with the plan all worked out, Dean realized just how tired he was. The day had been exhausting; thinking back he found it hard to believe that so much had occurred in the span of less than twenty four hours. They had been found out, sent on the run. He and Sam had broken out of a hospital, put several hours and a whole state between himself and the cops, and dealt with adversity at the bar, and still had time to come back to the motel and formulate a plan. But now he was winding down, and he could feel himself sinking farther and farther against the car seat, unable to right himself without expending more energy than he now had. And he decided that just once more, tonight, he would let Sam do it all. Tomorrow was a new day.

Dean called out for Sam, voice strong despite his tongue slipping on the 's' as he often did. His mind reminded him that the 's' would be the first thing he would fix...for Sam's sake; an homage to a little brother who already had and would no doubt continue to stay by his side through this ordeal.

Inside the room Sam sat on the floor just to the left of the opened door where he'd sank the minute he'd entered the room. He hadn't moved. His back was still pressed tightly against the plaster wall, aching now that it had spent so much time in that same position. Sam hadn't been able to convince himself to go any further away from Dean, couldn't tear himself from the fear that Dean might need him and he might not hear. So he'd sat. And he'd waited. And he'd worried. Until he finally heard Dean's voice break through the night air calling to him, needing him.

Sam bolted from his position, exiting the room in the same move and crossing the short distance from the door to the car in only three strides. There was Dean, slumped in the car and waiting patiently for Sam to attend to him. He was pale and thin and looked too young for his twenty six years, but he also looked resolved; as though he had just solved all the world's problems in the twenty minutes Sam had left him in that car.

"You ready to come in?" Sam asked quietly, already cramming the wheelchair he'd left open into the v-shaped space between the side of the car and the door.

Dean just nodded, exhaustion written plainly across his face, and he leaned forward the little bit he could muster to allow Sam room to work. Without a single complaint uttered, Sam reached under Dean's armpits and pulled him from the car, settling the older man as gracefully as possible into the waiting wheelchair before moving his feet from the car to the foot rests. Sam didn't bother with much support, knowing Dean wouldn't remain in the chair for very long once they were back in the room.

When they were safely behind the closed doors Sam started to fidget, his next question posing a feeling of discomfort for both young men - who more so was anybody's guess. "Do you need a bathroom break?"

Nodding again, Dean's mind immediately spun into overdrive as he debated over the best way to get the job done. He'd been putting this off all day, and truth be told he felt as though he might burst at this point, but that still didn't make the decision any easier. There was no way he could keep himself standing for long enough to pee, but it was just as much of a pain in the ass to maintain a balance sitting. Either way he needed Sam's help.

Sam pushed the wheelchair to the door, frowning when he realized it wasn't going to fit inside the cramped bathroom even if he could get the bulky frame through the doorway. He circled around to face Dean, a measure of apology in his expression, and crouched down. "Guess it's the end of the line, bro. I'm gonna have to lift you from here."

"Jjjjust d-d-on't wwwat-t-tch," Dean answered, and Sam knew exactly what he was asking. He could help all he needed to, stand there through the whole thing as he supported Dean's weight. But Dean still needed his dignity. He needed to know that he wasn't so completely incapable of handling things that he couldn't pee without supervision.

So Sam obliged, lifting Dean from the wheelchair and supporting him in front of the toilet before closing his eyes. He could hear Dean fumbling with his fly and knew better than to offer his assistance, instead tightening his arms around Dean's chest and burying his head into his back as an additional assurance that he wasn't snooping where he wasn't wanted.

Dean grunted when he was finished and Sam lowered him back into the chair, ignoring the blatantly obvious fact that Dean hadn't bothered to re-zip his pants. They would be changed out for boxers in just a few minutes and it was clear that the challenge wasn't worth the five minutes they would have stayed that way.

Once Dean had brushed his teeth, Sam returned him to his bed, changing out his smoky day clothes for a t-shirt and boxers before rolling Dean onto his side and propping him with a stack of pillows.

"Wwwwe'vvve g-g-got wwworrrk t-t-to d-do, t-t-tommmmmorrrow," Dean mumbled tiredly as Sam drew the covers over his shoulders.

"Work to do, huh?" Sam smirked, crossing the room to his own bed and sitting down so that Dean could face him. "What kind of work you got in mind?"

Sam was already thinking about the fact that Dean hadn't accomplished what they had set out to do that night, earning some cash, and he feared Dean would be back on that thought train. He had some thoughts as to how they might make a few bucks, but he wasn't willing to watch Dean's emotions get trampled on all over again in the process. He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable bomb to drop and found himself pleasantly surprised at the real reasoning.

"G-g-got t-to g-get b-baaack onnnn mmmy f-f-feet," he stammered, green eyes boring into Sam's own eyes in determination.

Nodding in agreement, Sam swung his legs up onto the bed and leaned back, resting his head on top of interwoven fingers. "I think that sounds like the best plan you've had in a long time, Dean. Sounds like something we can do."

Looking back over at the other bed Sam noticed that Dean had already fallen asleep just as he was replying to his older brother's request. He shook his head, sighing at the circumstances. It amazed him just how quickly Dean tired these days, but he was relieved at the upbeat attitude that had appeared to materialize out of nowhere. There was no doubt in his mind that this was by far the worst thing Dean had ever had to go through in his life, but he had somehow managed to overcome the feelings of pity and self-loathing to push himself forward. Sam wasn't sure he could be that strong if the situations were reversed, and he admired his brother for his fortitude.

xxxxxxxxxx

As he had done every morning since the stroke, Dean woke up with a feeling of reverie, forgetting for a split second the numbness and immobility that plagued his body. He kept his eyes closed for several minutes, keeping himself completely motionless in a futile effort to forget. But as usual, the stiffness and pain that accompanied his tight joints eventually forced their way through to his slowly clearing brain and he found he could no longer maintain the facade any longer.

He pried his sleep crusted eyes open, wrenching his good arm from under his head, and rubbed his eyes to clear the blurriness before he was able to focus on Sam. His younger brother seemed so peaceful in his sleep, the worry and fear that was clearly taking its toll on the boy during the day was completely erased in his slumber. In an instant, Dean made the decision to let Sam sleep. He'd already determined to be the first day of the rest of his life, and that meant taking control for himself.

He had two perfectly good, working limbs - one arm and one leg - and with a little effort and balance he saw no reason why he could start doing things for himself. Starting with the bathroom.

The night before Sam had left him lying on his good side. It posed a bit of a problem, made it harder to get up than if he was lying numb side down, but he was up for the challenge. Dean pushed against the mattress, working inch by inch to sit himself up in the bed. An eternity passed before he was up, balanced enough against the pillows to keep himself upright. Glancing back to Sam, Dean was relieved - and somewhat dumbstruck - at the fact that Sam was still fast asleep

_That's it, Dean. One challenge down, _he encouraged himself.

Sam had left the wheelchair close to the bed, open with the brakes still on, and Dean grabbed for it, pulling it as close as he could get it before scooting himself off the bed. Once again, he used his stronger limbs to pull himself along, putting all his weight on the left leg when it came time to transfer himself into the wheelchair. Miraculously, the feat worked and he soon found himself sitting victoriously in the chair with a gigantic grin on his face.

It was a little disappointing that he had no one to share the triumph with as Sam continued to snore lightly, but the string of conquests he intended to gain in the next few minutes would be well worth the solo celebration. Let Sam revel in the whole picture instead of waking him for one step.

Dean's determination had him crossing the room and pausing at the bathroom for a few seconds before he decided that he could make it to the bathtub with some strategically placed handholds in the doorknob, the towel rack, and the cold water knob, and he successfully managed to stagger-step the four steps from his wheelchair to the edge of the tub. Lowering himself into it, it occurred to himself that he probably wouldn't be able to get himself back out without Sam's help - the leverage back up was still too much for his weakened body. But that no longer mattered. What mattered was all that he had accomplished up to that point. All he needed to do now was undress and do the actual suds up. And that was a lot for a guy who had needed his baby brother's help just to pee the night before.

xxxxxxxxxx

Unbeknownst to Dean, Sam had actually come to as soon as he heard the shuffle of the bed sheets as Dean struggled to sit himself up. But he had watched his brother's lips moving and seen the determination in his eyes, and had known he would be doing the greatest disservice to his brother if he chose that minute to spring from the bed and offer assistance. If Dean had wanted his help he would have asked for it.

So with a strategically planned 'stir,' Sam rolled himself over and readied himself to jump if he was needed, but then forced himself to slow his breathing and pulled off a few convincing snores to assure Dean he was still fast asleep. Dean had bought it without a second thought, so set was he to do this on his own.

Sam kept one eye cracked, watching the struggle his brother encountered trying to do something as simple as getting out of bed; something they had both once taken for granted. He'd cringed a little when he saw his brother was headed for the bathroom, remembering the cramped space and inability to get the wheelchair into it the night before, but he'd made up his mind to let Dean do this his way. Letting the older man fall flat on his face, ironically, was the better choice than to insist on his support before anything had warranted a need. This was Dean's fight, and he had to let Dean fight it his way. Head on.

Keeping one ear open for any sounds of distress, Sam continued to lay in the bed. He would get up soon, but not until he was certain Dean had accomplished everything he wanted to do that morning. Not until Dean, himself, called for Sam to wake up.

Time ticked by at an agonizingly slow pace as Sam waited with baited breath for Dean to call for him or to reemerge from the bathroom, ever fearful of the ominous sound of trouble. His chest had clenched tightly as soon as he heard the water start running, and had yet to loosen up. Water was trouble; it was slick and buoyant, and Sam feared for any number of complications that could arise for Dean. But he stuck to his initial plan, truly believing that Dean was more likely to ask for help if help wasn't hovering over him like some kind of over exuberant mother hen.

He was right. Nearly twenty minutes after Sam had first heard the water running Dean called out from the bathroom, his mouth struggling to form the words he desired but otherwise exerting strength and assuredness. Sam couldn't deny the shock he felt at the power in Dean's voice, having expected a weak, self-conscious yell instead. But it said something; that Dean had reached a limit he knew he couldn't cross, but that he was still feeling pride at the amount he had accomplished without help. It reinforced Sam's feelings towards waiting out his brother, and as he crossed the small motel room to the bathroom he reserved himself to play it cool despite what he found inside.

Dean was pale, and clearly spent from his efforts of the morning. He sagged against the tiles of the shower wall where he had rested his immobile side when he started the bath. The water was now drained from the tub, his body mostly dry, and he'd lain a towel across his lap to offer some privacy. But as Sam stood in the doorway, Dean looked up at him with one of his prize-winning shit eating grins.

"Hey Sssssammy," he slurred, eager to head his brother off at the pass. "I c-c-coulllld uuuuse ssssome help h-h-ere iffff yyyou'vvve g-g-got a mmmminnnute."

He arched an eyebrow, confused, when Sam's only reaction to hearing the plea from his naked and tub bound brother was to work his jaw side to side a couple of times before crossing the two feet to the tub and kneeling down. No argument, no complaint, no anger at having woken up to find his invalid brother had gone AWOL.

"I gotcha," Sam said softly, gathering Dean up in his strong arms and pulling the older man from the hull of the porcelain tub and resting him on the edge. He never let go, carefully supporting Dean as he reached to the toilet seat where Dean had at least had the forethought to leave a fresh pair of boxers, and dragged the shorts back to their huddle. "Let's get these on first, then I'll help you back into the chair.

"Nnnnot mmmmad?" Dean questioned, confusion written plain across his weary face as he watched Sam push his numb foot through the leg hole of the boxers before holding the other side open enough for Dean to do the same with the good leg.

"No, Dean, why would I be mad?"

Dean shrugged, eyes staring hard at Sam as he silently conveyed his thoughts.

Smiling, having known what Dean was getting at before he'd even brought it up, Sam just rubbed his hand quickly over Dean's left arm and reached out to pull the wheelchair as close as he could get it. "You're a grown man, Dean. If you think you're ready to do some of this stuff on your own then I'm gonna respect you and let you do that. I just wish you weren't sneaking around while doing so."

Sounds of Sam grunting as he pulled Dean the rest of the way from the tub and into the waiting chair was the only thing that permeated the air for several seconds, but Dean wasn't done yet. He only waited long enough to feel secure in his seat before he had his say.

"Wwwas af-fffraid you wwwould hhhovver."

Sam snorted, the aversion of his eyes belying the truth in the statement. Dean couldn't be more right - he would have hovered. But if space was what Dean wanted, then space he shall have. "I'll make you a deal, Dean. I just want you to be safe, bro. You promise me you'll tell me what you're up to and I promise not to butt in unless you ask for my help." He paused, thought better of his suggestion, and then, smirking evily, added a disclaimer. "...or if you're unconscious."

And that was how Dean's new therapy efforts began; both in agreement, and both determined to get Dean back to his old self. It was a good system.


	12. Chapter 12

**_Here we go, back for another chapter. Once again, I can't say how grateful I am that so many of you have returned to see this through. Thanks so much. As always, reviews feed the process. You guys are all awesome. _**

The early morning success was short lived when, fearing that five hours away was still too close for comfort, the boys made the decision to get back out on the road that morning instead of waiting another day. Dean was still clearly weak, yet it really didn't matter if he was weak in some hotel bed or if he was weak in the passenger seat of the car. So Sam commandeered a couple extra hotel pillows and used them to prop his brother up on the right side so that he wasn't so uncomfortable this time around.

The foot drop and wrist drop the therapist had warned them about seemed to be attacking in full force, and Sam gathered the bootie and the wrist brace from the trunk, forcing Dean to wear them despite his arguments that they were ugly and totally 'uncool.'

"You think this is any better?" Sam had shot back, gesturing toward Dean's right hand and the awkward curl it had to it as the spastic muscles pulled it tight against his chest. "We've got to find time to do some real exercises with your arm and leg, Dean. It's important for your recovery."

Dean sighed, feeling very helpless at the moment. "Mmmmorrrre i-immmmp-p-ort-t-tant t-t-to llllleavvve. P-poooolice are clllllosssse. I fffffeel."

Pursing his lips, Sam nodded his agreement. Dean was absolutely right – jail time right now would only be detrimental to his brother's health. There would be no time for therapy, no time to focus on recovery, and worse yet, no way to protect himself from anybody looking to make trouble. It couldn't happen.

So they hit the road, pulling out without bothering to officially check out of the motel, and continued heading west. There really was no specific destination, nowhere that really called to them. Dean had flat out refused to let Sam call any of their hunter friends, declaring that he didn't want them to feel sorry for him, so the idea of actually holing up at one of their homes was out of the question.

Then there was the little issue of cash money. After their failings the night before, Sam was loath to bring up the subject. He knew Dean would blame himself, and would likely insist on trying again somewhere down the road, but Sam couldn't bear to see the same look of helpless despair that had encumbered his brother's face when he'd been refused by the pool hustlers. It was too much to endure twice, and he was determined to fix this problem without involving Dean this time.

His plan was a simple one – at least for a Winchester – but it still made his insides churn with dread and regret, and if it wasn't for Dean he would never have considered it in a million years. But Dean needed help, he needed safety, and for that they needed cash. Sam wasn't about to drag his brother back into another bar, and that really left them only one other option. Flat out thievery.

They stopped at a diner for lunch around noon. Dean insisted that he needed the exercise, so Sam retrieved the leg immobilizer from the back seat and patiently supported his brother's weight as he took nearly fifteen minutes to shuffle step his way from the car into the diner, listing and swaying drunkenly by the time they made it through the door. By now, Sam had already begun to question his plan, realizing that a speedy get-a-way was hardly an option right now. But then again, what self-respecting citizen would suspect some kid who could barely stand even with the help of a walker. From the stares they were receiving and the hasty retreats of patrons and waitresses to get out of Dean's way, Sam figured no one had even noticed _him_. Dean was the center of attention; Sam was practically invisible.

Sam led Dean to the first available booth and slowly eased him in before folding the walker and stuffing it under the table. He waited nervously for Dean to tilt to the side, as he tended to do when exhaustion won out, but his brother was playing it stubborn right now. Somehow, he was managing to remain upright.

Sliding into the booth across from Dean, Sam was already on the lookout for the tools to implement step two of his plan - step one being to simply enter a crowded eatery - and his eyes darted back and forth nervously throughout the room until Dean put a stop to that with a look of annoyance.

"Sorry," Sam breathed, diverting his attention back to his brother just as a waitress approached their table. She was young and pretty, slender, with honey brown hair and sparkling blue eyes, and a smile that would light up the room. Sam saw Dean grin at her as she approached, watched him try to sit up a little straighter in the booth, and then saw his face fall a bit as she flashed him a nervous glance before fixing her attention on Sam.

"Hey there, boys. I'm Sheila, I'll be you're waitress for the day. What can I start you off with to drink?" She laid menus down in front of them and placed the backs of her hands on her hips, waiting patiently for the reply.

"I'm just gonna have some water. Coke for you, Dean?" Sam answered, looking over to Dean to get his order. No matter how determined his brother had composed himself to be with his recovery, Sam still knew Dean wouldn't be willing to talk in public more than he had to.

Dean nodded once, head bowed to avoid eye contact with the waitress. He cringed as Sam repeated himself to the waitress, 'he'll have a coke,' hating the fact that Sam could speak the words so easily, hating that Sam had to speak for him at all.

"Thanks, boys," Sheila replied, nodding to the menus. "I'll go get those drinks for you, and I'll be back to get your order as soon as you're ready."

Sam immediately pushed the menu towards Dean, opening the laminated booklet automatically. "What do you want to eat?"

Dean shrugged, non-committal.

"You've got to eat something, Dean. You're the one who keeps talking about putting everything you have into your therapy. Food's the first step."

The glare Dean shot at Sam was enough to shut him up, clearly telling him to chill out without having to say the words. _I know Sam. I just don't know what I want. Give me a minute to read. _

Arms held up in surrender, Sam leaned back against his seat and opened his own menu,

scanning it quickly for his own meal as he kept one eye on Dean. It didn't take long for him to decide on a lunch, and he closed his menu with a snap just as Dean spun his own around, pointing at the chicken fingers and fries meal. Immediately, Sam knew it was chosen only because it would be easy to eat; Dean never chose chicken over beef if he had the choice. But Sam said nothing, merely nodding at his brother before summoning the waitress back to their table.

She returned, once again glancing awkwardly at Dean – looking without looking, before settling her attention on Sam. "D'you know what you want?"

Sam ordered for the both of them, saving Dean the embarrassment of having to stammer through, and the waitress the hassle of having to listen, and then watched her retreat from the table as he forced the sadness from his expression. It killed him to see Dean so vulnerable and out of control, to see the change in reaction that women now had toward his brother. This girl hadn't even heard him speak yet, had only seen him make his slow, awkward progression into the diner, and that was enough to turn her off. It was a normal reaction, but he wanted to throttle her all the same. He wanted to yell and scream and make her see that Dean was still the same gorgeous ladies man he had always been, that the inside still worked perfectly fine, and that the outside would soon catch up. But Dean wouldn't want him to do that; he would be more pissed off that he'd had to go through his baby brother to master a hook-up than he would be just to let it slide.

Soon though, his attention had wandered to the other patrons in the diner as he reminded himself once again that Dean could only get better if they were able to stop for a while. And they could only stop if they had cash. His brother's well-being was completely in his hands.

The means to his plan finally presented itself when he and Dean were more than halfway through their meal. Sam's heart sped up as he realized this was it, now or never, and he inched his way to the edge of the bench.

"Gotta go take a leak," Sam explained when Dean shot Sam a questioning glance. "You alright here by yourself for a few minutes?"

Dipping another fry into the puddle of ketchup, Dean nodded. "D-d-donnnn't nnnneeeed a b-bab-by sssssitter.

Sam smirked and stood the rest of the way out of the bench, hiding his shaking hands behind his back as he did so. He turned his back on Dean and headed towards the bathroom.

John Winchester had taught his boys just about everything there was to know about surviving in this world. He taught them about the presence of supernatural entities and how to kill them, when most of the world was blissfully ignorant to their presence. He taught them how to identify thousands of different kinds of weapons, their uses, and how to load and unload fifty seven different kinds of guns before either one was old enough to drive a car. He had them speaking five different dead languages fluently, and some thirty others enough to get by, before they were out of highschool. He taught them the art of lying, how to get into or out of any and all situations that came their way, before Sammy had started kindergarten. Both boys were so adept at lying that half the time they no longer knew what was a lie and what was the truth coming out of their mouths. And because hunting evil was not a paying gig, he had taught them every possible 'dishonest' way to attain cash without getting caught.

So it was without difficulty that Sam managed to snag the checkbook out of the unsuspecting woman's purse as it hung unsupervised from the wood strip that separated two back to back benches. But just because he could do it easily didn't mean Sam enjoyed blatantly stealing someone's checkbook, and moreover, it didn't mean he would ever forgive himself for doing so.

Sam's moral compass had always pointed a truer north than either Dean's or his father's, and it was only from reminding himself just how much Dean needed to have a chance to heal that he managed to keep the lunch he had just ingested from finding its way back up when he made it to the bathroom. Credit card scams were one thing - and he didn't like pulling those off either - but at least he didn't have a face to connect as the victim.

As he flipped to the back of the stack of checks, tearing the last three from the book, all he could see was the unsuspecting innocense of the woman he had just taken the checkbook from. He had to force Dean's face into the mix, focus on the struggle he was enduring simply because he had taken one too many knocks to the head in an effort to protect the rest of the world from learning of the evil that surrounded them. This woman may have never encountered true evil, and she still might never see it, and she had Dean to thank for that.

Pulling out his own wallet, Sam slipped the three stolen checks in beside his remaining cash. His eyes lingered on the name and the address in the upper left hand corner and he found himself promising to send a repayment of cash just as soon as Dean was better. It was his form of making a deal, as many believers did with the higher entities. Sam had always believed in a higher power, but it was hard to rely on him/her/it to fix one singular problem when he knew of the multitude of larger issues that said entity never managed to touch. But it didn't hurt to try; make a promise of repayment to someone he was about to wrong in exchange for his brother's well being; what was the worst that could come of asking?

He took another minute to splash some water on his face and calm his breathing before pushing through the swinging bathroom door to return the checkbook to the ladies purse and get back to Dean. Sam breathed a sigh of relief when the checkbook was safely back in the purse he'd taken it from, but they were far from out of the woods yet. He needed to get them out of there before the woman noticed anything was missing, and unless he could somehow miraculously convince Dean to let him get the wheelchair they had a good fifteen minutes to walk back to the car. Which meant they had to play it cool.

Sam slid back into the booth across from his brother, ignoring the questioning head cock Dean issued and instead reaching under the table to collect the walker. "You ready to go?" he asked, grabbing the bill from the table and sliding it in his back pocket.

When Dean nodded, Sam set the walker in front of the exit from the booth. "I'm just gonna go pay the bill. You get yourself to the edge here and I'll be right back to help you out, okay?"

Another brusk nod from his brother was the only response Sam received before he sprinted to the cash register to pay for their meal. When he returned Dean had managed to scoot himself to the edge of the booth, both feet centered between the walker and his working arm already grasping the grab handle on the top of the metal framework. He kept his head bowed, still fighting the necessity to admit needing help against his ingrained mentality to never show weakness, but Sam didn't care. He knew better than to push, and he grabbed ahold of Dean's numb right arm without comment, pulling Dean to his feet and waiting until he was steady enough to take some of his own weight.

"Alright, bro, that's it; nice and slow. Just take 'er easy." Sam's eyes darted nervously around the room as he shouldered half of Dean's weight from the diner, filtering through the hidden stares aimed in their direction in search of anything that might prove to be more worrisome. As he had expected, though, nobody seemed to be worried about their potential for being pick-pockets, only concerned that the listing young man clinging tightly to his brother and the walker might somehow be contagious. Only worried that whatever had befallen the poor sap making his way from the diner not happen to them.

As Dean made his slow progress through the door Sam made one final glance around the diner, finally noticing the woman whose checks he had just stolen staring blatantly at his brother as she talked to her companion. He could read her lips, could just make out the 'poor bastard, I'm so glad that's not me,' and suddenly found himself not so concerned about what he'd just done. He still didn't like the idea of all out stealing, but he was no longer concerned with returning the money he was about to take from her. Suddenly he felt vindicated; he knew that Dean would be vindicated.

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Sam drove another hour before he was ready to take the next step, still giving himself a pep talk even as he walked into the first convenience store. He had filled up the tank to the impala and quickly perused the food aisles, loading them up on the healthiest of the junk food in the place and a large bag of M&M's just for Dean, before finally feigning equanimity and approaching the counter.

He nodded to the teenage cashier, taking notice at the way the young girl ducked her head shyly and batted her eyelashes at him. He couldn't help the wave of guilt that immediately flowed through him as he realized he was about to use the school girl fantasy against the naive cashier, but swallowed down the knot in his throat as he set his purchases on the counter, leaning in to rest on his elbow as he winked at her.

"Can I get some cash back if I overwrite a check, sweetheart?"

The girl giggled, straightening her posture so that her chest stuck out farther, and bit her bottom lip. "I can give you up to a hundred dollars."

"That's perfect." Offering her his dimpled grin, Sam took out his check and made one final glance at the two names on the check, internalizing the husband's name. He waited for his total and added one hundred dollars to the total, scribbling 'Alexander Klause' on the signature line before handing her the stolen check. The girls shoulders slumped a bit when she saw that the name on the check was accompanied by the female's, but otherwise there was no reaction as she ran the check through the register and counted out five twenty's.

"Thanks a ton, sweetheart," Sam said in a thick drawl as he pocketed the cash and collected his bags. "You've been a big help." With one final wink, Sam turned on his heel and exited the store one hundred dollars richer.

Dean was asleep when Sam returned to the car, placing their bags in the backseat of the Impala and climbing into the driver's seat. It was for the best, as Sam suddenly found he couldn't make his hands stop shaking. He gripped the steering wheel as tight as he could and sucked in breath after deep breath, desperate to calm his frayed nerves before pulling back out onto the main drag. He had two more stops like that to make, and both needed to be soon before any chance of his fraudulent check scheme could come back to bite him in the ass.

The remaining two stops played out much the same as the first, minus the giddy cashier,

and Dean slept through both of those and an additional two hours beyond that, making Sam wonder whether to be relieved that Dean hadn't been awake enough to question him or to be concerned at the degree to which his hike to and from the diner earlier had drained him. Dean had never been a heavy sleeper; usually the slightest noise out of the ordinary had him bracing for a fight. But now he was dead to the world, in a very uncomfortable looking position with his head flopped at an almost hundred and eighty degree angle against his shoulder, his right hand pulled in tight against his chest, and the left elbow bunched behind his back in a vain attempt at supporting himself against the seat. The pillows had somehow all managed to slip from their support position and now lay in a heap on the floor.

Sam sighed, pulling over at the first safe location and reaching across Dean to try and make him more comfortable. He had gotten one pillow back under Dean's arm and another almost under his head when Dean finally woke up, blinking groggily as he tried to reorient himself to their surroundings.

"Wwwhere…arrrrrre wwwwe?" he slurred, seeing nothing but forest and two lane road in front of him.

"Michigan," Sam answered, sliding the pillow the rest of the way under his brother's head before Dean laid it back down again. "About twenty miles north of the Mackinaw Bridge. We're taking the scenic route."

Dean grimaced as he tried to sit up straighter in his seat. He was silent for close to a minute, taking in their surroundings as Sam nervously studied his pallid complexion. Color was slowly returning to his face, leading Sam to believe it was nothing more than a result of having been asleep for a while. When his brother finally seemed to be alright with their location he turned back to face Sam, mustering what little of his care-taker attitude he still possessed.

"T-t-tryinnnng t-t-o llllie lllllow?" He guessed.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I called Bobby about—"

The murderous look Dean sent Sam's way immediately made Sam stop his current line of discussion to reassure him that Bobby knew nothing of Dean's current condition; only that the brother's had gotten themselves into a bit of trouble and needed to disappear for a bit.

"Bobby's got a friend with a hunting cabin up here in the U-P. Said no one will be using it for another two or three months at least, and that we're welcome to it. Just gotta clean up after ourselves, close the place up when we leave, yadda yadda you know the drill."

Dean nodded, his frantic heart beginning to slow down as he finally began to believe that Sam hadn't gone and blabbed his misfortune across the hunters' phone chain. He decided it might actually be nice to get away for a while, distance himself from prying eyes, escape from drooling head hunters, take the time he needed to really and truly heal.

"Hhhow fffar?"

"Another couple of hours still. You alright? Need a pit stop or anything?"

"Mmm' g-g-good. J-j-just t-tirrrred of sssssitting." Dean shifted awkwardly in his seat, ending up sliding further down against the door in his effort and he groaned, unable to contain his frustration.

Immediately, Sam was on the alert, reaching out to help a grudging Dean sit back up. Not for the first time, his heart ached for the simplicity of a life lost to his brother. He hated seeing Dean struggle with the things he used to take for granted, hated the fact that he had to force his assistance on a brother who wouldn't normally be caught dead asking for help of any kind, _really_ hated the fact that Dean had to accept the assistance without complaint because he, too, knew it was inevitable.

Finally back into a comfortable position, Dean sighed and lowered his eyes, unwilling to look at Sam. It was his only defense, the only thing he still had to protect his pride. He couldn't say thanks, because 'Thank You' meant admitting needing the help in the first place, and as much as he knew he needed it couldn't say it out loud. And he knew Sam understood.

Silence once again enveloped the car, interrupted only by the rumble of the engine as Sam started the car and pulled back out onto the quiet road. Reaching out a hand, Sam patted Dean on the knee, the silent gesture enough to tell the older brother that it was alright to grieve in his own way, to heal in his own way. Whatever he needed, Sam would provide.

xxxxxxxxxx

Two and a half hours and multiple twists and turns down a winding one lane road in the middle of the forest had Sam pulling the car off the road into the gravel car park of the cabin Bobby had directed him to. He sighed, sliding both hands through his hair and resting the heels of his palms against his closed eyes for a minute, taking the opportunity to rest before waking his once again sleeping brother.

Sam was tired, exhausted actually, but he couldn't tell Dean that. He couldn't let his brother know that the stroke that came out of nowhere and ripped Dean's world apart was affecting him just as much. Couldn't tell him that he wasn't sure he had the strength to get him through this, and that he was beginning to think it was a mistake to pull him from the hospital, regardless of the presence of the law. Truth be told, they could have waited to escape _after_ Dean had received the proper rehabilitation. He would have been kept under surveillance while he recovered, but would not have been taken from the hospital.

Ultimately, though, Sam knew he had done the right thing pulling Dean from the hospital. He was just scared, fearful that he couldn't be everything Dean needed him to be right now. It didn't matter how much Dean was willing to put into his rehabilitation if neither one of them knew how to work a proper rehab program. Which meant Sam wouldn't be getting any rest anytime soon. He had research to do; lots and lots of research. Because if Dean was going to get better Sam had to know how to help him.

Break time over, Sam finished the draw of his hands through his hair before reaching to the side and shaking Dean awake. "Hey, sleepy head, we're here," he said gently, waiting only long enough for Dean to stir before he climbed from the car to get his brother's door.

It was then that he noticed his mistake, their mistake. It was then that Sam realized the problem that came from not being able to tell Bobby of Dean's brain trauma, and he moaned out a soft 'shit,' before dropping his hands to the side, feeling defeat for his brother before Dean even knew of their latest obstacle.


	13. Chapter 13

**_Alright, here we go. Some of you guessed correctly at what the problem was - hope you're not too disappointed. I know after such a long hiatus on this story I have no right to ask for reviews, but if it's not too much trouble please drop me a line. Let me know what you think! Don't make me start groveling...hehe. Thanks a ton. Enjoy..._**

As too much time passed since Sam had climbed from the car, Dean finally made the decision to investigate the problem. He reached across his body and pushed the door open, realizing after the fact that there were still pillows propped up against the door. They spilled onto the ground in a haphazard pile, Dean coming close to spilling out with them until he was able to stop his momentum by bracing his arm against the doorframe. Dean stopped for a breath, closing his eyes against the minor vertigo that threatened to overcome him, before peeking around the side of the car to his brother.

"Ssam?" Dean questioned, concentrating fully on pushing out his 's' without too much slur, and coming close to succeeding.

Sam blinked, registering Dean's call and immediately pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. Apology was written clear as day on his features and Dean frowned in confusion, still unsure what had made his brother stop.

"Yyyou oooo-k-kaaay?"

"Huh?" Sam still seemed distant as he continued to worry his lip while he looked past the car. "We, uh, we seem to have a little problem here, Dean," he finally admitted.

Dean cocked his head, giving Sam the opportunity to tell him the problem in his own time, although the frustration was clear in his expression.

Looking down the hillside, Sam's mind swam trying to establish exactly how he was going to break the news to his brother. This was not good. This was so bad. He walked forward, closing the distance between himself and the edge of the hill, passing Dean and the car in the process.

The cabin that Bobby had sent them to was not just a hunting cabin, but a fishing cabin as well, and it was situated at the bottom of a steep hill, resting just beside the entrance to a large lake. Twenty some feet of ragged, steep, narrow steps wound down to the back door of the cabin. It had been a while since anyone had done anything to renovate the property and the steps were crumbling in several places, and there was no railing to hold onto – not that Sam would have trusted its stability even if there were one.

There was no way he was getting a wheelchair down the stairs, and only a limited chance at walking his brother down to the cabin. _This_ was going to be fun.

Turning away from the view, Sam looked back to see Dean still looking at him questioningly, waiting for an answer. "Dean, we uh...we've got a bit of a problem here."

"Wwwhat iss it?"

Sam snorted, unsure whether to laugh or cry, and crossed to Dean. "Let me just show you," he replied, bending down to help Dean from the car. He slung his brother's right arm over his shoulder, holding the hand tight with one hand while slinging his other arm around Dean's waist.

They began the slow walk to the edge of the hill where Dean could finally see what had Sam so worked up. The older hunter finally sucked in a gulp of air as his eyes scanned the mess of an access from the top of the hill to the cabin. To say it was treacherous would be an insult to the term treachery, but Dean reminded himself yet again of the promise he'd made, the fact that he'd determined to get back on his feet one way or another. This was just one more obstacle in the fight.

"Lllllet'sss g-g-go," he said determinedly, not taking the time to look at Sam before taking another staggering step forward, closer to the edge of the first step.

Sam swayed for a minute, ill-prepared for Dean to make the first move, but he recovered quickly and stepped forward with the older hunter. Progress was slow and tedious. They hesitated for a while before attempting the first step, finally moving cautiously downward. The first step was mastered, but there were still fourteen more to get down before Dean was safe.

"I guess this is what happens when we don't give out the whole story," Sam dead panned as they stumbled down another step. Dean was clearly losing momentum and they still had another half the flight to go. He needed something to engage his brother.

"G-g-gooood Thhhherrrapy," Dean insisted weakly. His foot slipped off the next step in a tumble of loose gravel and Sam had to sway to keep them both upright. He grunted, good arm flailing in the open air, but finding no purchase on anything.

Sam snorted sardonically once they were stable again, and risked a sideways glance to his brother. "Therapy, huh? For who...you or me? Cause I gotta tell you, bro, I think we both know whose doing the work here."

Huffing in retort, Dean redoubled his efforts, concentrating harder on his momentum. "Yyyourrr a wwwwimp," he taunted, rolling his eyes. "C-c-cannn't eeeeven c-c-carrrrry yyyour b-brothhhher d-dowwwn a ffflight ooof sstairrrrs."

"You're calling me a wimp? Look whose talking, man. I haven't been laying on my ass for the last couple of weeks, letting all those gorgeous nurses wait on me hand and foot."

"Lllad-diesss g-gotta mmmake a lllivvving ssommme h-how. Jjjjussst hhhellllp-ping thhem mmmaaake a b-b-buuuck."

"Oh, I see how it is. So all this...it's just been an act to give the nurses something to do. How noble of you."

They were almost at the bottom now, and Sam allowed himself to sigh in relief prematurely. Only two steps to go and Dean's spirits were good. Things could have gone a lot worse. And at the bottom of the stairs there was an old lawn chair that Sam figured would suffice to hold Dean until he'd managed to find the key in the overgrown jungle of weeds that supposedly housed their entrance.

"I t-t-trrry," Dean continued, letting relief consume his own mind, too, as they cleared the last step. He wouldn't admit it, but he was truly exhausted from that excursion, and his legs felt rubbery and useless. He didn't think he could make it much further before he collapsed; Sam couldn't get him to the chair fast enough, and he sank into it with a low moan of exhaustion.

"So riddle me this, then," Sam continued their conversation as he stepped off the ancient concrete that once could be called a sidewalk to look for the fake rock their key was supposedly in. "Why did you keep up this crazy facade of injury once the nurses weren't around anymore. _I'm_ not getting paid to haul your lazy ass all over the place." He looked up with a dimpled smile, just to be certain Dean was still considering this to be a joke. He didn't want to go too far with the conversation.

Dean was slumped uncomfortably in the wicker chair, but he still maintained a bit of a smirk on his ashen face, enough to assure Sam he was still with him. "Jjjusst wwwannnt-ted t-t-to ssseeee hhhooow fffar yyyoooou wwwould g-g-go wwwithhh thhhisss."

"You mean this whole thing has been a test?" Sam demanded in mock objection. His hand went to his heart, feigning injury. He continued to look around the underbrush though, finally dropping to hands and knees when he realized that simply brushing the weeds around with his foot certainly wasn't getting him anywhere.

"Hhhaaad yyyoou g-g-goooing thhherrrre fffffoooorrr a mmminnnute, d-d-did-dnnn't I?" Dean grinned cockily from his slumped position in the chair and Sam was torn in his reaction. His brother was trying so hard to maintain his snarky demeanor and Sam wanted nothing more than to give that to him, but he couldn't help but see the broken shell of a brother sitting in front of him. He couldn't even sit up straight.

The rock finally showed itself and Sam was freed from his dilemma as he grabbed the key from the trap door underneath and stood back up, victorious. "Found it."

Relief shadowed across Dean's face, coupled with the unmistakable exhaustion he was feeling, and Sam quickly spanned the distance to the door, pushing it open before returning to help Dean the rest of the way inside. Dean leaned heavily against his brother, allowing the younger man to take more of his weight than he had previously yielded.

Inside, they had another moment of contemplation as they were met once with two sets of stairs - one leading up and the other leading down. Sam could only assume that up was the bedrooms, but Dean was insistent in wanting to go down to the living quarters. As tired as he was, he didn't want to be left out of anything. In the end, that turned out to be the smart move, because Sam would later find out that the only bathroom in the cabin was on the first floor.

Settling Dean on the couch in what functioned as the living room, Sam left him to grab the remainder of their stuff and came back to find the older man fast asleep. Sam smirked at his brother's prone form for a second before pulling his legs up to the couch and draping a blanket over top of him. Then Sam collapsed into an easy chair and caught up on a few hours of well deserved rest himself.

xxxxxxxxxx

Traversing the crumbling stairs had taken a lot out of Dean, and he only woke up long enough that night for Sam to offer him dinner before zonking back out on the couch. It was a pull out, and Sam was able to leave Dean alone in the large bathroom long enough to get it set up before helping him back. Unwilling to leave Dean alone downstairs, Sam found himself sacrificing his comfort and curling up in the armchair beside Dean. He would endure for one night, but he would have to figure out something else to do after that; there was no way his large frame would be able to put up with the cramped quarters for much beyond that.

Despite his exhaustion upon arrival into the cabin though, the next day Dean was up early and ready to get working. After the night at the bar, he had promised himself that he was going to put all his effort into his therapy and over the next day and a half had spent his waking hours coming up with a schedule. It was that schedule that he presented to Sam during breakfast.

"Hhhhaaaavvve p-p-pap-per?" Dean requested as he picked up a bite of the toast he had grudgingly allowed Sam to cut into squares for him.

Sam looked up from his own piece of toast and raised an eyebrow, not sure where this might be going. But instead of questioning, he put his breakfast back down on the plate and crossed the room to the small table near the phone. Grabbing the pad of paper and a pen from there, he returned to the table and pushed it toward his brother.

Dean pushed it back immediately, shaking his head and looking pointedly at his useless right arm resting on the table. "Yyyooou wrrrite." He insisted.

"Okay. What am I writing?"

It was a long, tedious process for Dean to spit out his schedule, but Sam patiently listened, writing down the schedule Dean outlined for him.

Dean had them getting up at six am, at least two hours earlier than Dean ever liked to get up before. He allotted half an hour for breakfast and another half an hour to shower and get dressed before starting the day. Seven until Nine was scheduled for therapy on his leg, walking and stretching and the like; followed by speech therapy until Ten-thirty and then therapy on his arm until Twelve-thirty. From there, a half hour break for lunch was followed by a repeat performance of the morning's activities. One to Three was leg work, Three to Four-Thirty was Speech, and Four-Thirty to Six-Thirty was Arm work. At that point, Dean had graciously fit in an entire hour and a half for Sam to make dinner and for them to eat it. But Eight o'clock had them spending one more hour working on speech before showering and going to bed.

Only after he'd written everything down did Sam say anything about the schedule, smacking the pen down on the table with an air of exasperation. "You trying to kill yourself?"

Conviction poured out of Dean's firm head shake as he forced Sam to lock eyes with him. "Hhharrrd wwworrrk wwwill p-p-paaay oooff," he insisted.

Sam ran a hand through his unruly locks and sighed. He tried not to look too hard at Dean, not wanting to break his spirit, but realizing just how unrealistic these goals were. Healthy Dean could have easily put forth the effort he'd outlined in his schedule, but this new Dean could barely keep his eyes open for more than a couple of hours at a time. There was no way he was going to last an entire day without scheduling in a rest here and there.

"This isn't hard work," Sam expressed, "This is impossible work. Dean, when are we going to rest?"

"Lllunnch. D-d-dinnnner," Dean slurred, no amusement in his tone.

"No, Dean, I mean _really_ rest. Sit and cool off for a bit. Maybe take advantage of the fantastic view off the dock back here. Have you even seen this place?"

"Nnnot a vvvvaaac-cation. Hhheeere t-t-to wwworrrrk. Nnnneed t-to g-get b-beeetter."

Sam's expression softened, knowing how much Dean needed to have his life back, but he still had his doubts on the schedule; not for himself, but for Dean. There was only one way he could play this, and he just hoped it would work out. "I just don't think it's such a good idea to over extend yourself like this," he pressed one more time before relenting.

"B-b-beee fffffine. Sslllleep wheeen Iiii'm d-d-dead."

"Fine. We'll do it your way." Sam stood up and grabbed their now empty dishes and walked them to the sink, hiding the smirk that found its way to his face at Dean's obstinance.

"But don't get pissed off at me when you pass out after half a day."

"Wwwooon't hhhappen," Dean assured Sam as his eyes trailed to the clock over the stove. "Wwweee're lllate."

Sam snorted, looking at the time himself. "Dean, it's five after seven."

Pushing his chair away from the table, Dean attempted to stand up as he looked seriously at Sam. "Exxxact-tlly. Ffffiiivvve mmminnnutes lllate."

"Yeah, yeah. Alright. I get it. Let's get moving."

Crossing the room quickly, Sam grabbed ahold of Dean's arm and pulled him gently to his feet with one hand as he stationed the walker in front of the stubborn man with the other. Dean grabbed onto the bar, fingers turning white as he made his way over to the floor in the other room. Sam helped him down to the floor and onto his back before spending the next half hour doing range of motion exercises with the frozen leg, just as they had been taught at the hospital.

He bend and twists and tugs and pulls, stretching in every angle, working muscles that rebelled against Dean at the same time his brain did. He urged Dean to push against his hand, holding back on the pressure until Dean called him on it and ordered him to use all his strength. Dean wouldn't get better if Sam cut corners.

There was a noticeable improvement from the last time Sam watched Dean in his exercises, but the muscles are still very weak. Dean's leg quivered violently with the exertion he put forth to move Sam's hand, and still the results left much to be desired. But he was no longer willing to be deterred. Every centimeter mattered; every improvement, no matter how small, was significant.

When the stretching was done Dean had Sam help him to his feet, and for the next hour and a half they walked back and forth across the floor, step after tedious step. They worked as a team, each gripping one side of the walker to move it forward as Sam supported Dean's stroke weakened side. The trembling in Dean's leg only increased, spasming terribly and jerking wildly, but he refused to give in. He wasn't willing to yield even one minute of the two hour time slot he had allotted to his first round of therapy, and by the time nine o'clock rolled around he practically collapsed into the chair Sam led him to. He was clearly exhausted, but nothing could erase the grin off his face from the sense of accomplishment he felt for having completed his first challenge.

They moved on to speech, an area Sam knew less about because he hadn't been as involved in the speech therapy sessions as he had the physical therapy. Besides, Sam understood physical, knew the inner workings of muscles and tendons and joints, but he had no idea how to make a brain rewire itself. He would give it his best shot, though. If Dean had the energy and the will power to work through this, the least Sam could do was try.

They started small, just focusing on individual letter sounds as Sam knew the therapist had been doing already. It seemed to work, the simple focus by both of them to enunciate each sound smoothly and clearly. But pronouncing single sounds, and stringing them together to form words, were two entirely different things. When the first hour and a half of speech therapy was through Sam knew only one thing - he was going to need to do some major researching to get Dean talking properly again. That might just be the most challenging aspect to his injury they were going to encounter.

However, the arm was the most frustrating. Unlike his leg and his speech, Dean had yet to make any improvement in the stubborn limb. This session was no different. Sam spent the entire time allotment doing range of motion exercises and trying not to meet his brother's discouraged eyes. His chest clenched at the disappointment he could see beneath the surface as his brother grit his teeth and agonized over making something move; the arm, the wrist, a finger. The veins in Dean's forehead popped out, bright blue against a quickly reddening sweat streaked face, announcing just how hard the older man was working to elicit a response out of his stubborn limb. But nothing happened. It remained just as still and immobile as ever, and Sam couldn't help but feel a guilt encompass him because he was unable to do anything to change the result.

By lunch time Dean was noticeably wavering, so tired was he at his marathon therapy session of the morning. But Sam's suggestion that he take it easy for the afternoon, shorten his sessions and fit in a nap, was quickly shot down. Dean was determined to push forward, to persevere against the odds. As long as there was a breath left in his body he would fight through the remaining day's therapy sessions.

Those sessions went much the way the morning sessions went, only with more shakes and quivers, more harsh words as Dean's exhaustion began to make him cranky and Sam's irritation at Dean's stubbornness made him combatant. By the time nine o'clock rolled around Dean was barely able to keep himself alert long enough for Sam to help him into his boxers and crawl into bed, foregoing the shower he had 'scheduled' for after therapy. He was out within seconds, snoring softly.

Sam, on the other hand, was far from finished. He grabbed himself a quick shower before settling into a chair at the kitchen table and opened his laptop. Working under the soft glow of the overhead stove light Sam perused the internet, scouring site after site for more advanced therapy techniques. They were fast depleting the little bit of information gleaned from the hospital therapists, and Sam had established that they would definitely need to step up the game if he wanted Dean to succeed.


	14. Chapter 14

**_Thanks for being so great guys. That last chapter was more along the lines of the number of reviews I'm used to getting - not that I want to be picky, but I was starting to wonder if anyone was here during the summer. Anyway, It's that time of the week again. Here's the next chapter. Enjoy..._**

Days passed by in agonizingly slow motion as the brother's worked daybreak to nightfall on Dean's therapy efforts. No matter how tired Dean appeared, no matter how many times he almost fell asleep during meals, the stubborn hunter refused to yield.

Sam had given up halfway through the second day at suggesting rest after Dean threw a stack of coasters at him. He had deflected the grenade with his right hand, his broken finger catching the brunt of the impact. Dean had allowed him two minutes to ice it and re-wrap it before complaining in his stilted tongue that Sam was too much of a wuss, and if Dean could endure ten hours of therapy a day he had no right to be complaining about one measly little finger.

Pushing the pain to the back of his mind Sam pressed forward, returning to the arm strengthening exercises he was performing on Dean's as-of-yet still unmoving limb. It was the only thing that wasn't improving, the only thing that refused to receive the instructions Dean was sending from his stubborn mind. Dean tried to keep an upbeat attitude about the whole thing, joking about how '_it must just be on sabbatical_,' and '_as much hard work as I've made do, damn thing deserves to take itself a little vacation.'_ But the larger the wall Dean built around himself in regard to the limb the more Sam could tell just how much it's immobility bothered Dean.

At night, Dean was far too exhausted to do much more than go practically comatose from exhaustion. But mornings were a different story. For the first two mornings Sam had emerged from the shower only to find a very red eyed Dean waiting for his assistance out of bed. Dean had brushed it off, saying he was just tired. Sam didn't press.

The third morning, Sam realized he'd forgotten his shaving kit in his bag and ran from the bathroom, water still running, to find Dean trembling. His shoulders convulsed, chest hitching, and Sam immediately knew why he'd found his older brother so red eyed the previous two mornings. Forgetting his shaving kit, Sam tiptoed back to the bathroom as quietly as he could, leaving Dean to cry in private. He'd never seen his big brother cry, yet this was the second time since the stroke that Sam had found him sobbing. God only knew how many times he had missed. Sam would never know, because he knew better than to bring it up.

Day four brought an end to their food supply and Sam finally had to lay down the law. They _had_ to take a break to go shopping, and Sam expected Dean to rest while he was gone; no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Dean glared at Sam from the bed as he watched his brother purposely remove the walker and the wheelchair from his reach.

"If you _must_ work on something while I'm gone, work on your speech," Sam ordered sternly, placing the portable phone on the table beside the pull out couch before taking one last look around the cabin in search of dangers and then, satisfied that Dean was as safe as he could make it, heading out the door.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sam's lies weighed on him, drowned him, a ton of bricks pulling him underneath the tide. He couldn't breathe. For days he had hoped that Dean would call him on the check stealing, ask him how he'd managed to get them enough money to escape when Dean's own hustling efforts had failed. Dean knew Sam had cash in his wallet – lot's of it – and he knew that the bags of food and supplies Sam had unloaded from the car had cost them plenty. But the older hunter was far too enamored with getting himself back on his feet to wonder how it was that Sam could provide them with such amenities when they couldn't use credit cards. And Sam was far too concerned with worrying about Dean to burden his brother with details of his check fraud. So Sam shouldered that weight alone, silently wishing that Dean would notice his distress and ask him about it; knowing Dean was far too involved with himself right now to do so.

Pulling up out front of the small town grocery store Sam sighed, willing himself not to let his emotions run rampant as he closed his eyes against his own set of wayward tears. The lack of food, while true, had merely been an excuse to escape for a few minutes. He would never admit it, but Dean's slow progress - especially in his arm - was getting to him too. It was near impossible to see his larger than life big brother being felled by something entirely out of his control.

Sam had worked tirelessly on Dean's arm, more than his brother even knew. His own muscles were strained and sore from the depth of pressure Sam had exerted, trying to reach deep down into muscle tissue. He had taken the lack of movement personally, offering up deals and promises to higher powers, stopping only at demonic assistance. But it didn't matter how much he begged, didn't matter how much stimulation he could provide to the lifeless limb if the wiring running from Dean's brain to the arm continued to short circuit. They could work the arm until they were both blue in the face and hell froze over; in the long run nothing would change until Dean's brain healed. It killed Sam.

Taking a deep breath, Sam finally pulled himself from car and walked into the store. A grey haired woman looked up from her perch at the store's only register and smiled at him cheerily just as his cell phone beeped, indicating missed messages.

Sam grinned back as he pulled the phone from his pocket, seeing that it was registering two bars of service - two bars more than he and Dean had at the cabin. There was no indication of whose call he had missed, because of the lack of service when the call had come in, so he quickly dialed his voicemail and put the phone to his ear. He had missed four calls - all from Bobby.

_Hey, Sam, it's Bobby. Just wondering if you boys made it to the cabin alright. I know it's not in the greatest of shape, but you know...it's out of the way. Hey listen, I've uh...I've got a bit of a confession to make to you boys. There's actually another reason why I sent you up in that direction to hole up. There's a hunt up that way, bout twenty minutes from the cabin in an old farm house. Seems the husband killed 'is old lady in a jealous fit an then killed 'imself. Thing is, they found the blood, but they never found the bodies. So now the two of 'em haunt the house - replaying the murders over and over again. Ain't nobody lived in that house goin' on near half a century now. If they manage to make it through the night, they leave the next day. So I thought maybe the two of you could go check that out. Gimme a call back and let me know if you're up for it. _

Clicking over to the next message Sam was already cringing. What was he supposed to

tell Bobby? How could he get them out of this hunt without divulging Dean's secret? But he couldn't do the thing on his own, could he? There was no time...not with the crazy schedule Dean had them on. When they weren't working, they were both zonked out, too tired to even think about spending another several hours chasing down a couple of decomposed corpses to salt and burn. _Shit._

The next two messages both comprised of the man worrying about where they were, why they hadn't called him back. They weren't John Winchester, for christ's sake, and he'd never known either one to ignore a call. Clearly he'd tried Dean's cell several times, too. And clearly he hadn't considered the fact that out of the way locations meant no service.

The fourth call is the one that freaked Sam out the most, and he found himself frantically checking his watch to get a time stamp. Two twenty nine.

_Hey Sam, it's Bobby again. Look, I'm starting to worry about the fact that I haven't heard from you boys yet. It's been four days, and I haven't heard a word from you yet - figured you would have at least been into town for supplies a couple times by now. Call me crazy, but I've just got this odd feeling that you're in trouble somehow...more so than just having the cops on your tail...so, uh, I'm on my way up there. Should probably get into town about three today. So, uh, gimme a call if you get this. I'll see you soon._

"Shit!" The word flew from Sam's mouth before he could stop himself. From across the room he saw the lady storeowner's head pop up, frown on her face as she looked at him disapprovingly.

"Everything alright back there?" She asked, struggling with herself over whether or not to scold him for his language.

Sam blushed, ducked his head ashamed. "Yeah, ma'am. Sorry 'bout that. Just got some bad news." He crossed back through the aisle he'd been pacing, shooting another look of apology to the woman before exiting the store. Finding Bobby's number stored in his phone Sam pressed talk and waited for their old friend to answer.

'_Sam?_ _That you?' _Bobby demanded anxiously as he cut in during the second ring.

"Yeah, Bobby, it's me.'

'_Damn, boy, where the hell you been? D'you have any clue just how worried I've been about you two? You know better than to disappear from our radar. It's too dangerous.' _The 'our' Bobby referenced was the hunter's network, especially the select few individuals who called themselves John Winchester's friends. The master hunter's boys' had been under the protective watch of the network for almost as long as John had been hunting. Even when John himself didn't seem to worry about Sam and Dean's whereabouts, Bobby and the other's had kept close track of them.

"Yeah, about that. Look, I'm sorry we went AWOL on you like that. But you really don't need to come up here. We're fine, really." _Dean would kill me if you found out about him._

Bobby let out a booming guffaw through the phone and Sam had to pull the earpiece away from his ear to protect his hearing. "Sam, you listened to my message, right?"

Taking Sam's silence for confirmation, Bobby continued. '_Boy, I'm like ten minutes from turning into town. I'm hardly turning back now. Figure I'll give you two a hand with this farmhouse haunting.'_

"NO!" Sam practically screamed. He had to pause and take a breath before he could repeat, calmer. "No, Bobby. You can't do that. We'll, um...we'll take care of the hunt ourselves. Don't worry about it." He was a terrible liar.

'_Sam, you alright?'_ Bobby asked, suddenly suspicious.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, leaning on the trunk of the car.

"Huh? Oh, yeah...I'm fine, Bobby. Just tired is all."

'_That's all?_' His voice leeched of skepticism, and Sam could practically see his eye brow quirking.

"Of course that's all. What else would it be?"

'_Sam, where are you? Are you at the cabin?_'

Conceding defeat, Sam grudgingly answered his friend. Bobby was too close to turn him back now, and the least Sam could do was stop him from going to the cabin. "I'm in town, Bobby. Sitting in the parking lot of the grocery store."

'_Is Dean with you?_'

"No, he's back at the cabin." It wasn't a lie. Wasn't the full truth, either.

'_Well do you want to meet me back there?_'

"No. Meet me at the store. We should talk."

'_You're sure you're alright Sam?_'

Sam cringed, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to ward off the headache he felt coming on. He wanted to unload his problems. More than anything, he wanted Bobby to pull up on his white horse and take all their problems away; tell Sam that everything would be alright from here on out. _Uncle Bobby is here now. _

But that meant divulging their secret. _Dean's _secret. A secret that wasn't Sam's to tell in the first place. A secret that he was about to divulge anyway.

"No, Bobby. Not really." He deflated, shoulders slumped, back hunched, against the car. "It's been a rough couple of weeks."

'_I can imagine.'_

_Not really. You don't even know the half of it._

'_Just hang tight, Sam. I'm turning into town now. I'll be there in a minute._'

"Yeah. Okay." They hung up and Sam dropped his head into his hands. He'd moved around to the side of the vehicle and now leaned against the tire, knees pulled up to his chest. He looked like a beaten dog, too tired even to put his tail between his legs.

True to his word, a minute later Sam heard the familiar rumble of Bobby's old truck. The soft beep tipped him off the rest of the way and Sam looked up just in time to see Bobby pull into the dirt lot and skid to a halt a few feet away. Sam didn't get up; barely managed to offer a smile to the elder hunter.

"Sam?" The one word held so many questions in it. _Are you alright? What happened? Where's Dean? Why isn't he here with you?_

The list went on, but Sam could only manage a shrug and a weak, "Hi, Bobby."

He finally scrambled to his feet as Bobby crossed the parking lot to him, trying to draw up some semblance of control in his haggard body. He felt like throwing himself at the man, sinking into his arms and baring his soul. But Winchester's didn't do that. Bobby didn't do that. And he would no doubt find himself the unwitting recipient of a no-holds-barred exorcism if he dared go all girly on the man.

Behind the grocery store were several picnic tables available for customers to eat their lunches. Bobby led Sam back there, had him sit, and disappeared back around the corner. He returned a few minutes later laden down with drinks and sandwiches for the two of them. Placing one of each in front of Sam and one of each down in front of himself, Bobby finally turned stern eyes on his young counterpart.

"What's goin' on?" The man's gruff voice left no room for argument. He'd just driven half a day because he was worried about the brothers, and he wasn't about to take any bullshit from Sam now.

Sam exhaled loudly, plopping his head once again into his large hand and looked at his friend through one opened eye. "First off, you have to promise me that you won't tell Dean I told you all this. He would kill me if he knew I was out here talking to you right now."

Bobby's curiosity piqued, wondering just how bad this could be that Dean would want to keep it a secret. Not telling their father, he could understand, but Bobby had always played the part of confidant for the Winchester boys. He gave a curt nod, a solemn promise. "He won't find out from me. Just tell me what's happened?"

"Dean had a stroke a couple of weeks ago." Sam put it out there hard and heavy, dropping it like a boulder in Bobby's lap and waited for the man to react.

"He did what?" He stammered, jaw dropping wide as he grasped for another explanation. "You mean like heat stroke?"

Sam shook his head sadly, wishing it was as simple as heat stroke. "I mean like a stroke stroke. Like fucking with his brain, paralyzing half his body, screwing with his speech, stroke stroke."

"Sam how? He's only twenty-six!"

"That's what I said," Sam shot back, throwing his hands in the air in frustration. "Seems his thick skull isn't so thick after all. He got hit in the head one too many times, threw a blood clot..."

For close to half an hour Sam poured his heart out to the older hunter, discovering that once he started he couldn't stop. Bobby listened with attentive ears, breaking in at just the right moments to offer solace and keeping quiet at the others. When Sam was done he felt as though a weight had just been lifted; the burden was no longer his alone to carry.

Except one burden was quickly replaced by another. He felt guilty. Guilty that he wasn't strong enough to deal with Dean's problems on his own. Guilty because he knew Dean _could_ if he were in Sam's place. Guilty because he had just spilled Dean's secret.

"Jesus Crist, Sam, you've been dealing with all this shit on your own? Why didn't you call me sooner?!"

"I had Dean." He said it softly, but it didn't lack conviction.

"Dean's keeping you sane." More sarcasm poured from Bobby's rhetoric.

Sam looked up, met his eyes for a few seconds, then dropped his gaze back to the table and his hands, finally offering an honest explanation. "He didn't want anyone to know. He's out of commission right now, Bobby - for who knows how long - and he didn't want you guys to think any less of him."

"That's ridiculous," Bobby scoffed. "Why would we think less of Dean just because he's run into a little bit of trouble?"

The young hunter's eyes spoke volumes. He didn't need to vocalize their reason; Bobby got it. _'Because our Dad would think consider him washed up, ruined goods.'_

It was common knowledge that John Winchester had no tolerance for sickness, injury, incapacitation. To him, pain was fuel. Something to be worked through and gotten over. Something to use against the evil of the world. Certainly not something that got in the way of a hunt. To John, there was no room for weakness. And this...this was as weak as it got.

Bobby sighed and slid his hand halfway across the table, resting it a few inches from where Sam's hand lay, about as close as he got to offering comfort. "Sam, I know I don't have to remind you that I'm not your father."

"You don't have to remind _me_ anything. This is Dean's gig; right now, I'm just the pawn."

"Sam, you're running yourself ragged trying to get him back on his feet. And now you've got the cops on your tail, too. You can't do this alone."

"I can't do it with help!" Sam shot back, hands quivering at the thought of Bobby going back on his word. "He doesn't want anyone to know, Bobby. I have to respect that. God, if he even knew that you and I were talking right now..."

"So we won't tell him. What if we pretend you and I never met today? What if we leave things as they would have been if you hadn't gotten my message. If you had waited one more hour to go shopping I would have shown up at your doorstep anyway; I would have found out anyway. What if we play it out that way instead? Dean never has to know you told me first."

Sam shook his head, regretting the fact that he was bypassing such a prime opportunity for help. But right now Dean hardly had anything going for him. He couldn't walk without support, could barely talk, and he had no use of his right arm. The only thing Dean had was his mind, his wants. And right now he wanted to keep this a secret. Sam couldn't take that from him.

"I'm sorry, Bobby. I can't...we...can't."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I don't know. I'll figure something out. But it's gotta be by myself; Dean would never forgive me if I brought you into this - no offense."

Bobby sighed. "I'm not taking offense, Sam. I'm just worried about you. This is a lot to shoulder...more than you should have to."

"We'll be okay, Bobby. Thanks for worrying, though."

The mechanic turned hunter slid from his place at the table and started pacing, hands locking behind his head as he cradled it with his arms. He spent several minutes thinking, working things out, before he finally stopped and faced Sam. "Alright, here's what I'm gonna do. Someone's got to take care of that haunted farmhouse, and I'm sure as hell not leaving you to deal with it right now. You've got enough on your plate as it is."

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Bobby held up a hand to stop him.

"I'll get myself a room in town, and I'll be around for a while. Work on that stubborn brother of yours; feel him out, see if you can get him to change his mind about having me come help you boys. When you change his mind give me a call. You'll know how to reach me."

Noticing the strategically placed 'when' instead of 'if,' Sam nodded his agreement. It wouldn't hurt to have the hunter in town for a few days, to know he had an ally if he needed one. He hoped Bobby was right. But feared he was wrong.


	15. Chapter 15

**_Alright, so the first thing I have to do is apologize. This will be the last post for at least two weeks. I'm going camping (in Algonquin ironically - for those of you who read Hangin On...) and therefore will be completely without any form of technology. I plan to take paper and pen and do things the old fashioned way to keep myself on track, but I won't be able to get anything to you guys until I get back. Wish me luck that I don't encounter some crazy spirit...although running into Dean and Sam as they come to get rid of it wouldn't be so bad... hmmm. Anyway, hopefully this will tide you over until I get back. I tried not to leave it with too much of a cliff hanger. Enjoy!! _**

Gritting his teeth at what he knew awaited him inside, Sam hesitantly turned the knob of the cabin door. He was right. From the top of the steps, Sam could see the living room below him. He could see his brother still confined to the couched, having been stuck there for far too long, having missed out on too many hours worth of therapy. Dean was pissed.

Dark, glowering eyes pierced the distance between them. His lip turned up in a snarl as he pushed himself into a more stable sit, trying to appear dominating. "Wwwwherrrre hhhhhavvvve yyyoooou b-b-been?" He demanded.

Sam juggled his bags of groceries as he descended the stairs, quickly fabricating a reason for his immense tardiness. He'd promised to be back in less than an hour. But thanks to the little detour to have a conversation with Bobby, it was now going on four hours. "I...uh, I couldn't find the store," he began, already realizing why it was that Bobby and Dean continuously told him he was such a bad liar. But it was too late to turn back now; he had to see this through to the end. "And then when I finally did find it, they were closed. So I had to go into the next town. Sorry about that."

Dean raised an eyebrow at his stammering brother and then averted his gaze to the walker, out of his reach in the kitchen. He needed his mobility back; before he could start yelling at his brother, Dean needed access to the walker. "Nnneed-ded b-b-bathrrrroom," he snarled, inching closer to the edge of the couch.

Springing to action, Sam raced for the walker, fearing the worst at his brother's past tense wording. _He wouldn't have. He _couldn't_ have. It's _Dean_ for crying out loud._ But no amount of convincing himself that Dean hadn't had an accident, it didn't escape Sam's knowledge that things were different now. Some things were no longer in Dean's control. Sam immediately felt guilty as he rushed to his brother's side, anticipating whatever he found.

He wasn't prepared for the smirk that had found it's way to Dean's face as the older man realized his plan was working without fail. Sam could be so literal sometimes.

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam cried in exasperation, swatting his brother lightly against his bicep. "I thought you…" he trailed off, not wanting to voice his fears and embarrass his brother further, despite his attempt at making a joke.

"C-c-cooould-da hhhhap-p-pennnned," Dean grinned, grabbing for the handle of the walker with his good hand and allowing Sam to help him up before he returned the scowl to his face. Now that he had effectively scared Sam into thinking the worst while he'd been gone, showing him what could have occurred while he was off gallivanting all about town, his brother owed him an explanation. "Ssso whhhere wwwere yyyoooou?" he demanded again as they slowly crossed the room to the bathroom.

"I told you, Dean, I had to go to the next town to find an open store."

"Lllliarrr," Dean slurred forcefully.

"Alright, fine! I needed a break, Dean. I needed to get away." Sam shouted, impressing even himself with his turnaround explanation.

From the look on the older man's face, Sam knew he'd said the wrong thing – chosen the most hurtful words he could think of to shout at his brother. But he also knew the line of questioning would be stopped. The trade came with sacrifices, but he figured he could get out of saying that easier than he could get out of telling about Bobby.

"Sssssorry I'm ssssuch a b-b-burd-d-den t-to yyyyou," Dean said softly, gripping the handle of the bathroom door and easing himself into the cramped space before closing the door between himself and Sam. There was enough to hold onto in there that he could make do without help, as long as Sam stayed nearby. Now, he didn't care where his brother went. He didn't need to be anyone's problem. He could work things out on his own.

Behind the door, Dean slowly inched his pants off his hips and carefully lowered himself to the toilet seat, trying to stop the shaking that suddenly plagued his hand and body. On the other side of the closed door, Sam was pounding on it, shouting out apologies and pleading for him to open the door.

"Dean, please open the door," Sam begged plaintively from the other side of the closed door. His open palm continued to pound on the door. "I'm sorry, Dean. Please."

"G-g-go aaawwway, Ssssam," Dean demanded softly, voice barely audible, defeated.

"I can't, Dean. You have to give me a chance to explain."

Realizing Dean wasn't going to just let it go, Sam finally relented, leaning back against the wall before sliding down it to sit on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

Minutes passed in silence before Dean finally opened the bathroom door, the hinges creaking softly as he pushed against the wood just enough to open it a crack.

Sam looked up. He could barely see Dean through the small opening, could see the utter dejection on his brother's face. It tore at him, ripped him apart from the inside out. His brother was hurting because of him. All because he couldn't tell him that Bobby knew. Which was worse?

"Dean?"

"Nnnneed hhhhelllp," the older man said, eyes refusing to connect with Sam's. He had realized he couldn't stay locked in the bathroom all day. That didn't mean he had to be happy about requesting help, didn't mean he was ready to forgive.

Sam jumped to his feet, ready to take any form of olive branch Dean held out to him. He pulled the door open wider and stepped inside, lining the walker up at the entrance before reaching for Dean.

"You ready?" Sam asked, hand bracing Dean under the armpit.

At Dean's nod, Sam pulled him up and balanced him at the walker before pulling his brother's pants back up past his hips. It was hard pretending this was perfectly normal, that Sam had dressed Dean every day of their lives. But he forced himself to do it, to pretend that he wasn't uncomfortable with the whole situation; to pretend that he didn't know Dean was even more uncomfortable than _he_ could ever dream of being.

They worked their way into the living room in an awkward silence. Having already said 'I'm sorry' in every way he could think of, Sam was yielding to Dean, waiting for him to take the lead on the conversation. He wasn't naive enough to think Dean would simply turn around and forgive him, but he would have at least liked for his brother to talk to him. Say something; anything. Hell, at this point he would take shouts and demands; anything that wasn't the somber shell of a man he had reduced his brother to. Who would have thought four little words could have so much power over a person.

But what the hell else was he supposed to do? It wasn't like he had called Bobby and begged him to show up in this pissant little town. It wasn't like he had _wanted_ to spill his guts to the closest thing to a confidant Sam had ever known - next to Dean. But sometimes, when life gets too tough, you do things before you realize you're doing them. Like tell Bobby Dean's secret. And if Dean wasn't so goddamn proud he could tell Dean that Bobby knew. He could make the suggestion that they let Bobby come help them.

One look at his brother as he lowered him to the couch confirmed for Sam that there would be no telling Dean anything of the sort, though. This wasn't the kind of thing Dean wanted announced to the hunting community - he'd made that abundantly clear time and time again. And even if Bobby offered his soul to the yellow eyed Demon himself in exchange for keeping the secret, Sam knew there was no way Dean would simply _let_ Bobby walk into this cabin and see him looking so worn down. Sam would have to find another way.

"Dean, tell me what I can do," Sam pleaded, trying one more time to get Dean to talk. They had come all the way across the room and the older Winchester clearly had no intention of breaking the silence, and Sam was understandably worried.

Silence followed for another impossibly long minute before Dean finally gave Sam what he wanted. Looking down at his hands, unwilling to give his brother the satisfaction of meeting his gaze, Dean offered the only solution that he was willing to accept. "Wwwee hhhhavvve wwwork t-t-to d-d-do," he said quietly. They were hours behind on his schedule. The fact that he, too, was exhausted and had really needed the break Sam's absence had provided meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Sam faltered, desperately wanting to be forgiven for what he said and knowing this wasn't it. But it was better than nothing. Right now he couldn't be picky. "Fine," he finally agreed, crossing back into the kitchen as he spoke. "Let's work on speech first. I've got to get these groceries put away before they go bad."

Dean nodded, and waited impatiently for Sam to direct him in his work. Since the stroke he'd been surprisingly yielding when it came to who took charge. He'd willingly allowed Sam to take the lead on the therapy, as long as work was being done. It was almost as though he had convinced himself that Sam was an expert on the situation, but probably had more to do with not wanting to immerse himself in the learning process. It was bad enough suffering through the stroke, being on the receiving end of it's adverse effects. But to understand why, to know how it affected him and what he had to do to change it, that was just too much - too real. Let Sam deal with that.

"Let's start with your alphabet," Sam instructed, digging into the first of the grocery bags and carrying the contents to the refrigerator. "Begin at 'a' and I will stop you when you have trouble.

It was always the same thing to start, every time, and Dean rolled his eyes as he slowly worked his mouth around the 'aaaa' and then 'beeee' drawing them out slowly and smoothly as his speech therapist had instructed back at the hospital. If he didn't struggle with the letters so much he might complain more about the redundancy of such an exercise, but Sam had argued early on that Dean could stop just as soon as he could get through the whole alphabet without stuttering.

"Ceeeee," Dean continued, feeling like a moron but knowing it was the only way. "D-d-deee,"

"Stop, Dean," Sam interrupted, sliding a carton of milk into the fridge. "Go back and say the 'd' again. Deeee."

Dean concentrated, thinking through the sound before attempting it again. His next attempt came out correct, and he made it through 'e,' 'f,' 'g,' 'h,' 'I,' and 'j,' before once again slipping up on 'k.'

Frustration abounded for Dean as he struggled over the 'k,' 'p,' 'q,' 's,' 't,' 'w,' 'y,' and 'z.' For each letter he stumbled over his face got redder and redder, left fist clenching tighter as he pushed it hard against his thigh muscle. The frustration was different for Sam, though. Because where Dean saw limitations, Sam saw improvement. And it was nearly impossible to convince Dean of those advancements. Three days ago, there hadn't been a single letter in the alphabet that Dean was able to pronounce without difficulty. He had stumbled over every sound and syllable, even reverting back to the initial aphasia he had experienced and pronouncing the wrong sounds every now and then. Now, though, he had all but mastered the simpler of the letters, and only struggled with the hard consonant sounds now.

Knowing that wasn't going to change anything right now. Dean was a man who wanted results and he wanted them _now. _There was no waiting, no later. Anything other than immediate and yesterday was inexcusable where he was concerned, and until the day came that Dean had no noticeable deficits in his speech Sam knew his older brother would never acknowledge an improvement.

They went through the alphabet twice before Sam had all the groceries put away, and by then Dean was ready to move on to his leg. He'd been sitting far too long, he complained, and his speech could be focused on again closer to bedtime.

Dean took his first unassisted step the next day - unassisted meaning clutching a death grip to the cane with a four pronged base as Sam hovered dangerously close but not touching him. But it was his own, on his power. He couldn't have been happier.

Sam guessed the added pressure Dean put on himself to take that step came from being left alone for so long the day before, from feeling helpless and incapable of doing something as simple as getting from the couch to the bathroom. Sam didn't really care what it was that got Dean up and moving though, so long as he was doing it.

It was that same day, only a few hours later as Dean worked with the flashcards Sam had purchased at the rehab supply store while Sam fixed dinner, that Bobby called, putting the pressure on Sam to tell Dean what had actually happened while he'd been out the day before. The only phone in the cabin was in the kitchen, and although it was portable it really didn't work all that well outside, and Sam was unable to escape to a private location as he hissed angrily at Bobby that '_now isn't the time_' and '_no you can't do that,_' referring to the older man's request to stop by and surprise Dean.

He had tried to be as discreet with his answers as possible, but hanging up the phone severed that hope as he turned to see Dean's demanding eyes. "Whoo thhe hhell wwas thhat?" Dean questioned.

The first thing Sam noticed was the noticeable improvement in Dean's speech, hearing a significant depreciation in slurring and struggling over the difficult sounds, and he wanted nothing more than to call attention to that and divert Dean's attention from the phone call. But he barely managed to open his mouth before he could feel the heat burning from his brother's searing eyes, and he knew he wasn't getting away with any tricks this time. Dean knew something was up, knew Sam had been hiding something on his end of the conversation, and it certainly didn't help that he was still pissed off at being left for so long the day before.

Sam didn't lie. But he didn't divulge the whole truth either. "It was Bobby. He wanted to talk to you, but I knew you wouldn't want that. I had to turn him off somehow."

So Bobby had actually asked if Sam had told Dean he was in town, and could he come by yet. So he'd insisted that Sam figure out a way to tell Dean he knew soon, because the older man couldn't - in good conscience - let Sam deal with this on his own and he was coming whether the brothers liked it or not. Sam didn't _actually_ believe Bobby would defy his request. He figured they were safe, and for that he could stretch the truth just a little bit. Dean even seemed to be buying it this time.

Turns out Sam should have worried just a little bit more about what Bobby would and would not do. He had just finished putting the clean dishes away and was in the process of collecting supplies so Dean could have a shower when a loud, echoing knock resounded throughout the small cabin.

Sam looked at Dean, biting his cheek as he forced a nonchalant shrug. He tried to ignore the boring eyes his brother cast at him, silently ordering him to get rid of whomever was disrupting their reclusiveness. In his gut, Sam knew exactly who was at the door. There was only one person who both knew they were here and knew where 'here' was - Bobby. _Damn him!_

Cringing, fighting an urge to grab a shotgun and blast the bastard with a chestful of rocksalt, Sam climbed the stairs, ripped the door open, and faced his ex-friend with a steely gaze. "What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed, keeping his voice low so Dean didn't hear him.

"You know why I'm here," Bobby answered, equally quietly, pushing his way through the entrance. "Don't worry, Dean won't know you knew I was in town. He won't suspect a thing. Now get over here and make this look good."

The man raised his voice. "Hiya Sam. I was nearby on a hunt, thought you could use some help figuring a way out of this trouble your having with the law."

Sam caught on quick, grudgingly realizing he really had no choice but to play along, and stepped in front of Bobby's way. "Uh, Bobby, that's really nice of you. But we're good. I think we've figured it out on our own. You should probably get back on the road so you don't get home too late."

"Nonsense," Bobby continued, gently pushing past Sam and starting down the stairs. "Besides, I figured I'd just crash here for the night. You boys don't mind, do you?"

Brushing past the man once more, Sam stopped him halfway down the stairs and turned him away from the view of the living room. "Bobby, seriously, have you seen this place? I mean it's a bit small for three people. No offense, man, but we're a little cramped as it is."

Bobby pretended to ignore Sam's comment, pushing past him once again as he took in the view of the empty living room. "Where the hell is that brother of yours?" He demanded, looking around and finally resting his eyes on the pile of rehab equipment tossed in one corner of the room. The walker, leg brace, wheelchair... "And what the hell is all this junk?"

The only thing the old hunter had feared in barging in on them like this was the whole pretending he didn't know what had happened to Dean. He feared his reaction to the young man, worried that it might appear too shocked or too prepared, too sympathetic or too apathetic. This solved the problem, and he quickly crossed the room to the equipment, picking up the walker in one hand as he turned back to Sam. "The hell, Sam? You guys don't usually travel this heavy. I don't think I've ever known one of you two to willingly submit to using any of this stuff."

Sam's eyes widened, nervous stare darting back and forth between Bobby and the closed bathroom door that he knew was the only thing separating the old man's prying eyes from his injured, and most definitely seething, brother. "You really shouldn't be here," Sam tried more desperately, suddenly realizing that he wasn't playing. He still wanted the man out of the cabin, still wanted to keep Dean from finding out that Bobby knew about him.

"Sam I asked you a question. Two in fact. Now what's going on here?"

Taking a deep breath, Sam ran his hands through his hair and glared at the man in front of him. "Nothing, Bobby. It's a...it's for a job we're working. In a um...in a nursing home. Yeah." _God I'm a terrible liar! Dean's gonna see right through that_. Bobby_ would see right through that even if he didn't already know for a fact it was a lie. _

"Saaaam," Bobby warned, raising his voice as he now truly was uncertain how far away Dean was. "I know something's going on here, and I know something's up with Dean. The car's still here, so he has to be around. Where is he? What's going on?"

Sam crossed his arms, unconsciously planting himself directly between Bobby and the bathroom where Dean hid. They had to keep this up until Dean chose to show himself - there was no way Sam was giving up his brother's secret directly in front of him. It had to be Dean's decision. "He went for a walk. Said he had to clear his head."

"In the dark? In the middle of the woods?"

"You think that scares him?" Sam laughed, relieved that this response, at least, wasn't a lie. "We hunt ghosts for a living. I hardly think a midnight walk in the forest is going to terrify him."

"Maybe not, but I still don't buy it. That brother of yours - he'd take the car out for a drive any day over going out for a walk. What aren't you telling me?"

"I don't know, Bobby, he just said he felt like going for a walk tonight. I don't ask questions–"

Dean opened the door, finally tired of hearing the two of them fight over him. He sighed loudly and waved a hand through the doorway. _Hi Bobby._

"Dean? What the hell are you doing in there. Get out here!"

"Bobby..." Sam warned, quickening his pace to catch up to Bobby before he could cross the room to actually see Dean. He got there too late. By the time Sam reached Bobby he had a full view of Dean sitting awkwardly on the toilet seat, arm curled limply against his stomach and the other hand clenching tightly to the cane as though it was his only lifeline. Bobby gaped openly, honestly, clearly unprepared for the gaunt figure that appeared before him. And Dean was pissed as hell.


	16. Chapter 16

**_Alright, so here I am, back from my camping trip. Unfortunately I didn't run into a certain adorable set of brother's we all know and love, nor did I encounter any spirits haunting the woodlands. Did get eaten by a ton of mosquitoes, though - does that count? Hehe. Had a great time. With any luck, this installment will be worth the wait. Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!_**

****

Somehow, no matter what Bobby had prepared himself for, those preparations had clearly missed their mark. He knew what Sam had told him of Dean's condition, but knowing and seeing were two completely different things. And seeing had caught him completely off guard.

Truth be told, Bobby really didn't know what it was he had expected to see. Weakness, maybe. Dean wobbling stiffly around the cabin like an old man. A little bit of cotton mouth, making it difficult, but not impossible, to speak - to be understood. What he hadn't expected was to come face to face with a Dean who so closely resembled...a patient. A cripple.

The older man cringed as he noticed the fire coming from the young Winchester's green eyes, stepping back and looking at Sam for some guidance. Sam didn't seem all that eager to give it though. He was far too focused on his brother and trying to calm him down before he suffered a setback.

"Dean," Sam spoke gently, sliding into the bathroom without a second glance at Bobby and closing the door behind him. "Dean, I'm sorry. I didn't know he was coming," Sam offered truthfully.

Grip loosening on the cane, Dean sank back against the toilet. He was trembling, clearly distressed, but it helped that they were free from prying eyes. His eyes fell to the limp hand that rested unnaturally against his stomach, fingers curled inward to a fist, reminding him over and over again of his failures. "Yyyou knnnewww hhhhill...hhheeere," Dean accused and Sam couldn't help but notice the way his speech suffered the angrier he got. When the aphasia returned, it was a surefire sign that Dean was livid. His symptoms grew exponentially with his agitation.

Sam was tired of lying, and now that Dean knew Bobby knew there was no sense in lying about the past. "Yes," Sam admitted, sitting on the edge of the tub so he could face Dean without stooping. "Yes, I knew he was in town. He showed up when I went out to the store - I guess he had been trying to call us for a while, and since our phones didn't work here..." Sam trailed off, letting Dean fill in the blanks.

"D-d-did yyyyou t-t-taaake...t-tellll hhhimmm?"

"Bobby didn't give me much of a choice," he said apologetically. "It was that or he was just going to show up and see for himself..." Sam paused, thought it through, and smiled sardonically. "Although I guess that really didn't keep him from showing up anyway. You know hunters - they do what they want when they want it. I tried, Dean. I really did."

"D-d-doooes d-dad knnnow?"

Sam shook his head firmly. "If Dad knew he would have called by now. Probably with some order that you get up off your lazy ass and heal, damnit." He cracked a nervous smile, knowing he was teetering on a very fine line. Cracking jokes held the potential for going either way right now.

After a minute, though, Sam supposed it had been a success; or at least as much of a success as he could expect right now. A shrug of the shoulder, slow, purposeful, but no sign of falling into a deeper depression or wanting to throw a punch. For as much as Dean _could_ joke and accept right now, that was pretty darn expressive.

"He's here to help," Sam reassured his brother, reaching out a hand and settling it on Dean's leg. The fact that Dean immediately arched an eyebrow and looked purposefully, first at the hand and then at Sam, immediately eased the younger brother's fears. He removed the hand quickly, confident that his brother was still in there somewhere.

"Fffine onnn our ooown," Dean insisted, looking up to lock eyes with Sam. Pleading. Hoping.

Sam shook his head, breaking the connection Dean had created before his brother's soulful eyes could wreak too much havoc in Sam's already teetering emotional state. He didn't know how to say it so that Dean would understand, but he had to give it his best shot. "We're not, Dean. Not really."

Dean blinked, clearly confused. It was obvious he wanted to protest, wanted to insist that there was nothing the two of them couldn't conquer on their own. But deep inside he knew that Sam had been doing most of the conquering for the both of them, and that he had no right to argue with his brother's more rational decisions. The worry lines etched on Sam's face told him enough to know that whatever it was Sam was trying to tell him had been well thought out; the decision had clearly been agonized over. Whether Sam had meant for Bobby to show up when he did or not, Dean knew the inevitability that Sam eventually would have called the man anyway. It was just a matter of time.

So he allowed Sam to explain; gave him a chance to tell his side of the story. Just because he listened didn't mean he had to like it. It didn't mean he had to agree with it.

"You've got yourself on a schedule that would drive the most enterprising person to tears, Dean. It's a constant push of exercise and speech, more exercise and more speech. And you've got me right there along side of you - which is exactly where I want to be," Sam was quick to add. "But then you finally go to sleep at the end of it all, and I'm still awake. Researching and preparing, thinking, worrying. I'm tired, Dean. I want to be there for you. I want to help you get back on your feet. You have to know that I would do absolutely anything for you in the whole world, Dean. But I think it's going to be easier on the both of us to have Bobby around to pick up the slack and share some of the challenge with us."

Sam paused, giving Dean the opportunity to argue. But all Dean did was ask a question, choosing from the most worrying part of Sam's revelation. He may have been struggling through his own vast array of emotion and pain, but he was a brother first. Sam's protector. "Yyyyoou wwworry?"

Clearly taken off guard, Sam looked up and met Dean's fearful eyes. He could see his brother's inner struggle to make everything right in the world for him. He knew Dean wanted to truth. "Yeah, Dean, I worry. Of course I worry."

A shrug or the shoulders and a nudge with his chin was the only response Dean required to ask Sam what he worried about.

"I worry about the fact that you're over extending yourself," Sam replied, choosing to start small and work his way up to the larger issues. "I worry that my help won't be enough for you. I worry about the fact that we're stuck here, hidden away from the world because of those damn credit card scams you and Dad insist on pulling when you should be in some top notch rehab facility getting help from the best therapists there are."

This time Dean reached out, leaning precariously from his perch on the toilet to rest his hand on the top of Sam's. He could see the moisture clouding his little brother's eyes, and wanted nothing more than to wipe it away, but he couldn't reach that far. So he did the next best thing; he comforted, and he continued to listen.

Sam's voice hitched as Dean made contact with his hand, but he didn't stop. This was his chance, maybe his only one, and he had to use it. "I worry every night that maybe you've hit the apex of your healing - even though you get better every single day, and it doesn't look like that's going to change anytime soon Dean, I still worry about the day that maybe you don't improve. And how I'm supposed to help you deal with that; what we're supposed to do then. Where will we go?"

Sam stopped, sucked in a deep gulp of air and held it in as he felt Dean's fingers tighten around his wrist. There was a tug, as Dean bade Sam silent instructions to look at him. Looking up, Sam could see the strain of determination crossing Dean's face - the way he worked his jaw back and forth and the way his forehead wrinkled and creased, the way his nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. He was deep in concentration.

"Evverythhing will b-be fine, Ssam," Dean assured, preparing for and focusing on every syllable to limit his difficulties. "We're t-together."

That was all it took to provide a curtain of assuredness over Sam's emotions - hearing what Dean was saying and knowing what he wasn't saying but truly felt. Sam had always been able to read his brother, to know what he thought and meant even when he didn't actually say it. But the stroke had brought about a whole new dimension in the mind reading and perception field.

Even when he concentrated, it was such a time-consuming struggle to say what he meant that Dean had taken to omitting most of it. When they were both lucky, Dean ended up voicing the most important parts, but either way Sam usually needed to fill in the blanks.

This time he filled in statements like 'you and I make a great team,' and 'I'm here for you just as you are for me, Sammy.' The fact that he included the dreaded nickname told him more than anything else that he was voicing Dean's innermost thoughts. And that he missed hearing them out loud. Right now he would give anything to be called 'Sammy,' but as it stood he found it was all Dean could do to spit out 'Sam' without adding a hissed series of esses.

"I know, Dean. I trust you," Sam assured the older man, forcing himself not to dwell on what his brother couldn't do, and rather to see what he had accomplished; his speech had been as close to flawless as ever since before the stroke. And forcing himself to see what could be accomplished if they could double-team the therapy efforts. "We'll be fine...but we'll be better with Bobby's help. Please, Dean. Let him stay"

Dean may be able to put on a good show, but in the end he always sacrificed whole heartedly for his brother. Anything Sam wanted, Sam got. And most of the time, Dean had to admit, Sam usually knew what he was talking about. Not that Dean would ever admit it _out loud._ "Ffine," he agreed grudgingly, already convinced that he wasn't going to like it no matter how much Sam thought it was the right thing to do.

But seeing the light shine in Sam's eyes once again, the relief filter through in his body language, Dean knew he had at least done the right thing for Sam. If having Bobby around made his little brother's life easier then he supposed it was a sacrifice he could make.

"You mean it, Dean? You're okay with this?" Sam didn't want to press his luck, but he didn't want Dean to feel pressured, either. Dean didn't realize it, but Sam knew how many sacrifices he made for his little brother, how many times he had given up what _he_ wanted to yield to Sam's requests. As much as Sam wanted Bobby there to bear some of the pressure, he couldn't allow Dean to give up what little bit of his own dignity their seclusion was allowing him. There was no doubt Dean would have ever requested Bobby come, but Sam at least had to know that Dean wasn't giving up his own happiness just for Sam. He had to be convinced that Dean at least remotely believed this might be okay.

Honesty flashed within Dean's gaze as he drew in Sam's eyes to him. "Hhhe c-can ssstay," Dean agreed, giving up the challenge of forcing perfect speech. "Unt-til I sssay."

Sam nodded, understanding the unspoken words behind his brother's decree. It was okay, a mutual agreement. If Dean asked to have the man leave at anytime, Sam would go to extremes to get rid of him. But until then, Dean would endure their visitor. "I can live with that."

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Dean was already on his feet teetering unsteadily as he clung to his cane, Sam clinging to him, when they opened the bathroom door to inform Bobby he could stay. The brother's marked a slow path across the room to the pull-out couch bed as Bobby cowered uncomfortably behind the counter in the kitchen, unable to take his eyes off of the sight of what John Winchester's oldest had been reduced to.

Slowly lowering himself to the couch, Dean took a final minute to compose himself before looking up and giving Bobby a slight head now.

"He's agreed to let you stay," Sam announced, taking Dean's reaction as his cue to voice their decision. "But only on a preliminary basis. It's going to depend on how this goes."

Bobby issued his own nod and removed his ball cap as he inched closer to the brothers. He could feel Sam's eyes boring into his even as he broke the connection between them, and knew the youngest Winchester was pleading with him not to screw this up. He vowed to try, but suddenly the concept had become heavier. The idea of being responsible for a young man so injured and so dependent floored the old hunter, whose experiences with recover were limited to supernatural related injuries. Werewolf bites and Wendigo gouges he could deal with, but strokes and aneurism's were another story. He was experienced with mind over matter cases, but now he was looking at a case of healing a mind that wasn't quite strong enough to just _think_ about healing.

They stared at each other for a while, unsure what the appropriate next step was. Bobby had arrive uninvited, and it was clear that his presence was only being allowed grudgingly. SO thank you's on either end were out of the question. And it was too late to move onto a new therapy session; too late really to do much with the remainder of the night.

It was clear that Dean had intended to take a shower just as the man had arrived, but there was no way Bobby was offering to help with that, nor was there any chance of Dean asking. He still had his dignity no matter how hard it was to come by right now. Clearly it was hard enough for the young man to accept what limited assistance he allowed Sam to provide. And whether or not he even wanted to attempt a shower now was yet another question.

Sam finally broke the silence, unwilling to allow the tension to increase any longer. "I think we should call it a night, guys. It's late and we're all tired. We can talk about this - make some kind of an arrangement or a plan - tomorrow." It was the best he could do under the circumstances, and he was relieved to see it working.

Dean nodded, already inching himself further onto the bed and against the mound of pillows Sam had insisted on providing for him. He was exhausted. The anger leading from Bobby's surprise appearance had drained what remained of his energy, and he didn't even protest as Sam bent to help him. He remained compliant as the wrist and foot braces were put back on and the pillows propped up around him. Dean was asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, and never heard his brother and Bobby make their way from the room and upstairs.

xxxxxxxxxx

No sooner than they had made it to the top of the stairs, Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Bobby jumped in before Sam could reprimand him.

"I know what you're gonna say, Sam, and for the record I'm sorry it caused a hassle. But I'm not sorry I came."

A heavy pause filled the air for several seconds before Sam's soft voice broke in, the argument deflating before it had a chance to gain any ground. "He'll get over it." He ducked his head and lead the way to one of the bedrooms, allowing Bobby to select one fo the twin beds and toss his bad on it before Sam plunked himself upon the other one.

Clearly exhausted, Sam braced his arms behind him on the mattress to keep himself upright as he stared at Bobby expectantly. Truth be told, a giant weight had effectively been lifted from his shoulders the minute Bobby set foot in the door.

"So he's pretty bad, huh?" Bobby hedged, unsure how to bring up the conversation.

Sam nodded and played with a ball of lint stuck to the blanket.

"Gotta admit, I wasn't prepared to see him like that. You're description didn't do this shit justice."

"He's getting better," Sam said. He felt himself getting defensive. It didn't matter what the truth was, he didn't want anyone else telling him how bad off his brother was.

"I'm sure he is," Bobby was quick to reply. "And he's still hot the trademark Dean Winchester attitude. That's key for recovery."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "That helps a whole lot." He toed at a small stain on the carpet, keeping his head bowed and his shoulders hunched over in defeat.

"You okay kid? You seem about as perky as a beaten puppy."

Sam shrugged non-committal, prompting Bobby to press further.

"Talk to me, Sam. What's going on? Is this because of me?"

"No," Sam said too quickly. "Not exactly. I mean yeah, but not– I don't know."

Quirking his right eyebrow and cocking his head Bobby waited for Sam to clarify.

"We were arguing - before you got here - about the fact that it took me so long to bet back here. In trying to make an excuse he would buy, I made the mistake of telling him I needed time to myself and that's why I was gone so long." Sam pushed off from his balance of his hands and used one to pull through his hair before slumping forward, elbows on knees as his head fell into his hands.

"Ooh boy," Bobby sympathized, letting out a long hiss of air before finally allowing himself to collapse on the bed. "I bet that went over well."

"He definitely took it personally. Problem is, I can't entirely say it was a lie. And on some lever I think Dean knew that.

"You're under a lot of pressure, Sam. It could get to anybody - even Dean himself, if he really stopped to think about it. Just with Dean and the stroke alone is a huge weight to carr. That's not even considering whatever else you've got going on." Bobby paused, eyes shifting to his clenched hands. "Speaking of which..."

Sam winced. He'd been expecting this - just not so soon. He had yet to figure out this whole mess himself, and it didn't seem fair to toss such a wild card into the pot.

"What's with you two running from the law?" Bobby pushed.

But in his own way the older man seemed to be genuinely eager to help, and Sam really needed the help. "It's a long story," Sam tried once more, giving his friend one more chance to back out before he turned into his own version of Mount Vesuvius.

"Try me."

And Sam did, breaking into his woeful tale at full speed. He filled in the gaps that he'd left out in the original story; about Cassie and the Insurance fraud and the police on their trail. He told him about the hotel they had run to and the feeling it still wasn't quite secure, and stopping at the Medical supply store - having to use the credit card there - and about the check schemes and the guilt that continued to plague Sam for that particular endeavor. He told Bobby every minute detail of their nightmare escape and laid out details that he'd been dying to share with Dean but couldn't risk the burden on his already suffering brother.

It felt good to share the details, to get them off his chest. But in the end Sam was no better off than he had been when he'd started. The answers were coming few and far between, and while Bobby made a good listener he had no additional information to provide Sam. They were still sitting at square one when it came to answers and solutions.

"We'll get to the bottom of this, Sam" Bobby assured, slapping his thighs and standing up as he brought the conversation to a close. "And I promise you I will keep you boys safe until we figure it out. But for the time being, I think you need to get some sleep. It's been a long couple of weeks for you."

Sam nodded, eager to let someone else take care of him once again. He hadn't realized just how involved Dean was in his day to day decision making, and he missed having someone looking out for him.

Bobby crossed the room and laid a hand against Sam's neck, guiding him from the bed and out the door to the next bedroom. Sam screeched to a stop.

"I sleep downstairs," Sam said, stiffening as he felt Bobby continue to push him to the bedroom.

"Not tonight, you don't. Tonight you get a good night's sleep in a real bed. You think I don't realize you've been sleeping in that damn armchair every night."

"He might need me. I can't leave him alone."

"You can, and you will," Bobby pressed, pushing harder until Sam finally gave in and grudgingly stumbled forward. "Dean will be fine, Sam. But I'm not so sure about you. You're running yourself ragged. Have you even taken a good look at yourself? You look like a raccoon whose been run over by a truck one too many times. Get some rest. Please."

"Bobby I–"

"Need to sleep," Bobby finished, continuing to push Sam towards the bed as the younger man kept spinning out of his grasp to protest. "Dean will be fine. I'll listen out for him so you can rest."

Imploring eyes sought out Bobby's, clearly trying not to hope for the relief to be real but failing miserably. It was so hard for either of the Winchester boys to give up control, and yet so desired at the same time. "Really?" Sam asked, unable to hide his hopefulness.

Bobby suppressed a chuckle. He knew how volatile the young man was presently and didn't think his nerves could take the amusement Bobby saw in the situation. Sam was so vulnerable and young right now. "Yeah, Sam, really. I will listen for him and help where I can. He'll be fine - I promise."

A long silence followed in which Sam contemplated the offer, weighing the pros and cons and finally giving into his exhaustion. Dean would sleep through the night, of that he was certain. So what would be the harm in allowing Bobby to take over the vigil for a night. He could step up again tomorrow.

Finally relenting, Sam sank down onto the soft bed, sighing. "You'll call me if anything happens?" he asked, one final plea before giving in completely.

"Promise," Bobby assured him. The older man was already heading for the door, afraid to lose his win if he stayed too much longer.

Sam watched as the door shut behind Bobby, leaving him alone in the room as an instant panic overwhelmed him. It was as though the door had just been closed on his ability to care for his brother, to be in control of the situation. He jumped up, crossing the room in three strides and grabbing onto the handle of the door. His knuckles turned white from gripping the knob so tightly, but something stopped him from turning it and opening the door.

As though an invisible force was gripping him and holding him back, Sam hesitated in shoving through the door and returning to his vigil on his brother. The pause was long enough that eh was finally able to regain control of his senses and remind himself that things would be fine. This was what he'd secretly hoped for - to have help and support - and he had to give into its powers. He had to allow Bobby the opportunity to give the support he so desperately craved.

Forcing himself to return to the bed, Sam stripped down to his boxers and crawled under the covers, mentally forcing himself to stay under the confining comfort of blankets and pillows until the anxiety had passed. He could do this. Dean could do this. And with Bobby's help thing's would be a whole lot easier. Tomorrow was a new day.


	17. Chapter 17

**_Alright, so I'm late posting this and I never got around to answering any of your kind review. Please keep in mind they're all greatly appreciated. I thrive on your wonderful comments. Hopefully, this slightly longer chapter will make up for my recent failures. Either way, enjoy. I look forward to your comments. _**

Sam woke up the next morning to a full and bright sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window. For a minute he lay there, groggily disoriented as he enjoyed the warmth of the light against his cheek. And then he realized there shouldn't be that much light yet. There shouldn't be that much warmth yet. Not at six o'clock in the morning.

He sat up with a jolt, chest heaving as he searched frantically for a clock and finally finding it on the dresser beside the door, its face turned pointedly toward the wall. He growled, jumping from the bed and stomping across the room toward the clock, certain that Bobby was behind its obscure position. There was no doubt in his mind the previous occupants of the cabin would have left the clock in the odd position he'd found it in.

Grabbing at the clock, Sam spun it around roughly on the dresser, nearly stumbling back in shock as he noted the time. It was nearly eleven am. He'd almost slept the whole morning away. Dean was going to be so pissed off.

"Shit!" he muttered under his breath as he scrambled into his clothes from the previous day, jumping up and down as he worked to get his shoes on in record time. His hair was a mess, uncombed and flying in every possible direction as he took off, wild eyed and frantic from the bedroom. The stairs were taken three at a time, gripping the railing in an effort to stay on his feet.

"Dean! I am so sor–" he began, the words mostly out of his mouth before coming to a dead stop mid-sentence and mid-stride at the sight before him.

Twin sets of eyes stared at him from the kitchen table, amused, curious. They, too, had stopped in the middle of their work. In Dean's hand, clenched tightly only because of Bobby's firm grip around the fist, was a stress ball Bobby had been helping him to squeeze. His elbow rested in the palm of Bobby's other hand, and Sam could only assume Bobby had been doing Range of Motion exercises on the arm at the same time.

"–ry," Sam finished, an automatic reaction. His hand dropped from the bottom of the railing to his side, confused at what was going on in front of him. Twelve hours ago Dean had been pissed out of his mind at the idea of Bobby honing in on their situation. He'd come close to ripping Sam a new one, the only thing stopping him his physical incapability of doing so. And yet now he and Bobby were all buddy-buddy, working toward a common goal. Without Sam.

"What's going on here?" Sam demanded, crossing the remainder of the distance between himself and the other two. He stood over them, hands on hips.

"Dean didn't want to wake you," Bobby replied, going back to the exercises as he casually offered his explanation.

"He didn't wh–"

"Yyyou nnneeeded rrressst," Dean added. "Sssaid sssoo y-y-yourrrssself."

Instant guilt filled Sam as he was reminded of the self-serving admission he'd spouted the night before and he winced. So that was how it was going to be. Dean was getting him back by means of the guilt factor. Passive aggression. And it was already working.

"Dean, I didn't mean–"

The older Winchester held up his working hand to stop Sam's protest, immediately silencing him. Struggling with his speech, Dean couldn't afford to have to repeat himself and Sam knew that. Ever since the stoke, Sam had learned to shut up the minute Dean wanted to say something, and annoyed as he was over being left out of the morning activities, Sam wasn't mean enough to change his actions now.

"It's oookay, Ssam. B-b-bobb-by's hhhelping."

"We've got this under control, Sam," Bobby interjected. "Things are good right now. Why don't you get yourself a shower while Dean and I finish up here, and then you can take over after lunch. I want to go check up on that haunted farm house."

Sam's head immediately shot up, glaring at Bobby for making mention of the local hunt. Dean wasn't supposed to find out about that, and Bobby knew it. What Sam didn't know was that Bobby had told Dean all about it before Sam had ever woken up. Matter of fact, that was the whole reason Dean had finally given in and allowed Bobby morning shift with his therapy while they let Sam sleep. Lord knew, Dean hadn't been happy about the prospect without the incentive Bobby had offered.

xxxxxxxxxx

**Five hours earlier**

Bobby had always been an early riser, very early. Which meant that he was already downstairs making breakfast with half a pot of coffee in his system by the time Dean stirred for his self-proclaimed wake-up call at six o'clock. The young man groaned softly as he rolled over in the couch bed before blinking bleary eyes at the old hunter in his borrowed kitchen.

"Mornin' kid," Bobby greeted as he crossed the span of the rooms to fall into the chair at Dean's side. Still unsure of the extent of young Winchester's injuries, he ignored the hint of confusion that crossed Dean's face, obviously at his presence.

"B-b-bobby? Wwwherrre's Ssam?"

The question itself answered Bobby's unspoken one. Dean remembered last night. He knew Bobby was here now, and why. He just didn't know why it was Bobby, and not Sam, that greeted him this morning.

"Kid's exhausted," Bobby said, staring Dean hard in the eye to make sure he got the point before hearing the rest. If there was one thing Bobby knew, it's that he had to make everything Dean's decision. Start telling any of the Winchester men what to do and they immediately stubborned up and start doing the opposite. "I made him sleep in one of the beds last night; told 'im I'd keep an ear out till morning. You want me to wake 'im?"

Thankfully he got Bobby's hint. "Lllet hhhim ssllleep. I c-can wwworrk alllonne."

Bobby tried not to feel hurt at the fact that Dean was obviously trying to exclude him from the therapy efforts. Sam or alone, those seemed to be the only options in Dean's mind. But Bobby was here now, and he was determined to bring Dean around on the subject. It was just a matter of outsmarting the kid.

Shrugging, playing it cool, Bobby stood back up and started back to the kitchen. "Have it your way kid. I'm gonna finish my breakfast; just holler if ya need anything."

Of course, it wasn't long before Bobby got his first taste of how stubborn Dean could be, and he soon found his plan to be backfiring left and right. Sam purposefully didn't leave the mobility equipment within Dean's reach at night, knowing that doing so was a recipe for disaster. Nighttime was the only time Sam even got a modicum of sleep, but he couldn't acquire even that with the fear that Dean might get up in the middle of the night and decide to attempt some walking on his own.

The wheelchair and the walker were resting in a corner some ten feet away, and left behind a regular obstacle course of chairs and tables. The cane was closer, hanging off the back of the lounge chair that Sam usually slept in, but even that was out of Dean's reach from his position on the couch, and the way the chair was positioned, at an angle on the other side of a small end table, it didn't lend itself easily for retrieval. Which meant that Dean's only means of transportation was the tops of tables and the backs of furniture for support. There were any number of challenges that induced.

From his carefully planned position at the kitchen table, Bobby could see everything Dean was doing, and read about ninety percent of what was going on in the younger man's stubborn mind. Keeping the paper carefully lifted just enough that he could see over top of it, but hopefully not so low that Dean realized his actual intentions, Bobby kept a firm watch.

It took Dean several minutes just to get upright and sitting on the edge of the bed, and he stayed that way, legs dangling off, for another several minutes as his eyes scanned the room, mentally internalizing his route. Without Sam there for balance, the cane really didn't do much good for Dean. It was wobbly and didn't offer enough stability for his still very weak right leg.

The walker was better; he was still unsteady on his feet and preferred the additional stability that Sam provided when he steered Dean's bad side as they guided the frame together. But it was still a much sturdier piece of equipment than the cane. If he balanced his weight in the center, grabbing hold of the cross bar instead of the sides, he was pretty good at getting around without help.

He knew Sam would want him to choose the wheelchair, though. Dean had fallen enough times in the past weeks that Sam still insisted on the chair if Dean was trying to move without Sam immediately by his side. But his little brother was sleeping, enjoying some much needed rest that Dean lacked the liberty to have for himself. For a moment, Dean found himself resenting Sam for being able to sleep when he had work to do. But the older brother quickly pushed that to the back of his mind, unwilling to let the thought take root.

Decision finally made, Dean began the arduous task of pushing himself upright from the couchbed, using the end table for support. He wobbled wildly, falling back to the bed four times before he was steady enough on his feet to remain standing. Staying hunched over, afraid to stand fully for fear he might fall, Dean inched himself around the front of the table to the front of the armchair. And there was problem number two.

Instead of going around the chair to reach for the cane, Dean decided he would just reach across and grab it, shortening his actual walking time. But to reach meant losing his center of balance, and that meant another faceplant. This time, he went down into the chair, still cushioned and safe, but frustrating nonetheless, and when he finally managed to turn himself around in the chair he could see Bobby across the room watching him. The paper was no longer held up, Bobby having given up the pretense of reading and now clearly uncertain whether to laugh or run to help. Dean was mortified.

"Waddaya say I give you a bit of a hand," Bobby finally called, making a decision on what to do. He had already put his paper down and was halfway across the room by the time he finished his offer, but Dean was shaking his head just as quickly.

"D-don't nneeed hhhelp."

"You don't need help, or you don't need help from _me_?" Bobby challenged, ignoring Dean's protest and heading to the corner where the wheelchair and walker were. "Which one do you want, boy?"

"Nnneitheeer. I'mmm g-good." Guilt flowed into Dean's mind at being called out by Bobby, but now wasn't the time to go soft on the man. Bobby would deal.

"That's bullshit and you know it. You're not going to get better by being stubborn, Dean. Now tell me what you want and let me help you with it."

"I wwwannt yyyou t-to llleavvve mmme allone."

Bobby shook his head. "Not an option. I'm here to help. Sam's exhausted and he needs some time to rest, so you're stuck with me, kid. Deal with it."

"Nnneed a shhhower. Yyyou'rrre nnnot hhhelllping."

At that, Bobby chuckled and made his decision. He brought the walker, knowing the chair would do little to help Dean improve physically, and planted it solidly in front of the stubborn Winchester. "You're right about that. There's no way in hell that I'm giving you some kind of sissy sponge bath. I ain't seen you in your birthday suit since you were five years old and I sure as hell don't intend on breaking that record now."

Dean breathed out a sigh of relief as he reached for the center bar of the walker with his good hand and began once again to pull himself up. But he froze before he was even an inch off the chair as it became clearly known that Bobby wasn't done talking.

"So here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna get you into the bathroom, set up something so that I know you're not gonna faceplant into the slippery tub, and then hover around the _closed _door of the bathroom like you and I both know your brother would insist upon. And then you're going to take your own damn shower, by yourself. And you're only gonna call for me when you absolutely need help."

A hint of a smile glossed Dean's face as he recognized Bobby's fabricated hardcore exterior for the dramatization that it was. But he appreciated it nonetheless. It made the acceptance that much easier. Not that he was quite ready to give himself up to Bobby's care, but the grime and odors from two days worth of rehabilitation without opportunity for a shower had begun to take its toll and if he didn't get clean now Dean feared there might be a different way his body might manage to get up and walk, without rehabilitation. He was that rank.

Dean hid the smile quickly, hoping Bobby hadn't noticed, and gave a curt nod of disgruntled approval. Bobby took immediate action, proving that he had no clue what he was doing when it came to Dean and his current capabilities. The older man grabbed Dean roughly under the armpits and lifted him quickly to his feet before loosening his hold, causing Dean to sway dangerously on his feet, desperately trying to gain his balance after the speedy ascent. He reached out to the walker in a frantic motion of flailing hand, just barely gripping onto the cool metal with sweaty skin before Bobby was back, arms holding him tightly around the upper body in a bear hug until he managed to gain a solid foothold.

"Sorry about that, kid," Bobby finally muttered when the crux of the situation was under control. "I didn't...I mean–" He brought both hands to the bill of his worn ball cap, pushing in on the brim as he held a breath for several seconds before letting it out slowly. "You good?"

There were any number of smart-mouthed things Dean could think to say. And that was part of the problem right there - the thinking compartment of his brain was still fully intact, and working overtime to come up with snarky comments and responses. Lately, he had become bogged down with a backlog of comical, sarcastic material. But he had long ago learned that all of it lost its edge under his jilted speech. Which made it all the harder to face Bobby, because that was what he knew the older man expected. Pardon from his mistake, from accidentally dragging a cripple to his feet as though all he needed was to 'shake it off' and move on with his life.

Dean knew Bobby had meant nothing by it, knew he was just trying to do what he thought was right. Trying to give Dean some semblance of his old life back. But it hurt to know he couldn't have that.

"I aaam nnnow," Dean finally answered, gripping tightly to the center bar of the walker and taking his first stagger-step forward, effectively releasing Bobby's tight grip. One of Bobby's hands dropped to his side altogether as the other one slid from Dean's back to his elbow, gripping tightly and loosely at the same time as he tried to find his place in the situation.

The two made their way slowly to the bathroom where Bobby left his charge on the toilet to undress while he ran around the cabin in search of something 'safe' he could leave Dean secured in while he was in the shower. In the end it was a wicker lawn chair he'd found on the back deck that soon took up residence in the tub, and Dean managed a safe twenty minute shower while Bobby paced the kitchen floor in front of the bathroom with an all too real concern that Sam would wake up and discover he'd left Dean unsupervised in the shower.

But Sam didn't show up, and that left things in a continued awkward state when Dean had to call for Bobby once the shower was over, and Bobby walked in to find Dean naked as a jaybird; sporting only a towel over his lap to keep him covered up.

It was one thing to take his pants off while sitting down; a little bit of wiggling and some well placed tugs had the things off. But getting them back on, on a still wet body nonetheless, proved to be an impossible feat. And Bobby's face turned a bright crimson the minute he realized just how little he had walked in on.

"Sure you need me right now, kid?" Bobby hedged, already inching back out the door. But Dean's despondent smirk gave the answer the older man feared. With a sigh and an exaggerated groan Bobby crept forward, unsure how they were going to keep the towel wrapped around the kid's waist and still get him up and dressed. His first attempt had one hand fisting the towel at the small of Dean's back and the other arm snaking under one armpit and around his back, but that quickly proved tedious when Bobby realized it didn't balance them right.

Next he tried gripping Dean solidly around the waist, both arms wrapped to his back and firmly holding the towel in place, but that too yielded balance problems and a chuckling Dean who, eyes twinkling with amusement, finally reached around with his good hand and gripped the towel himself as he motioned for Bobby to lift him from under the armpits. It worked like a charm, and once Dean was on his feet he was able to release the towel and pulled a pair of boxers around his hips without forcing Bobby to look or help at all. He and Sam had obviously done this a few times before.

"Coulda said something before I made a fool outta myself," Bobby grumbled, following Dean to the kitchen where the younger hunter shakily lowered himself to one of the chairs around the table.

Dean looked up at Bobby with a smug grin on his face, his point made without words. _You're not Sam. I didn't want you here and I'm not offering you any more help than I have to. _

Bobby brushed himself off, both mentally and physically, reminding himself that this was _Dean Winchester_ he was dealing with. None of this whole damn thing would prove to be simple. So instead of letting Dean's hot and cold mood swings get to him, Bobby plastered a smile on his face and went for the cereal he had discovered in one of the cabinets when he went looking for breakfast that morning.

"You in the mood for healthy or sugary?" he asked, displaying the two options to his stubborn counterpart.

"Sssug-gar," Dean announced without a moments hesitation and greedily tore the box from Bobby's hand as it was held out to him. There was already a clean bowl on the table for him, and Dean ripped into the box, pouring the cereal to the brim of the bowl before struggling with the milk Bobby offered. Some of it sloshed onto the table as Dean was once again reminded that he was not left handed, nor was he ambidextrous, but all in all the mission was successful. And for the next several minutes the only sounds were those of Dean munching happily on his morning meal.

"You got any meds to take?" Bobby finally asked when Dean was just finishing up the last of the milk in the bowl.

Dean cocked an eyebrow, once again hating the fact that Bobby was digging into the most private part of his life right now. He liked the guy, don't get him wrong, but he wasn't even ready to share this with his father. So what the hell did Singer think he was doing trying to butt into Dean's business the way he was. But then again, the alternative was to wake Sam from a much needed slumber, and he couldn't do that to his baby brother. Not after everything he had done for him so far.

Making his decision, Dean nodded to a cluster of amber bottles beside the sink. An anti-convulsant, blood thinner, pain killer, and an anti-inflamatory filled the bottles and Bobby collected the correct dosage of each, handing them to Dean who swallowed them dry, grimacing as they protested their slide down his throat.

And that was the end of Dean's accepting persona. From there on, he had decided he was doing this on his own. It was bad enough he'd had to endure the mortifications he already had for the day. But those had been necessities. Things he stood no chance of doing on his own. He could do his therapy without Bobby's help. Of that he was confident. Even if he hadn't ever accomplished that feat in the past. And that was when Bobby brought out the big guns.

Dean made to drag himself up, immediately brushing off Bobby's attempts at assistance.

"Are you really gonna fight me every step of the way?" Bobby demanded, suddenly finding himself unable to contain any more frustration.

"Nnno," Dean came back in a smart assed reply. "B-b-bec-causse yyyourrr g-gonna b-back oooff ffffirssst."

Bobby sighed, wondering how many times the sound of aggravation had passed over his vocal cords in the last hour. He opened his mouth once again to protest when he remembered just what it was that made the Winchester men give in. _It's got to be on his terms,_ Bobby reminded himself for the second time that morning. _Make it seem like it's his terms. _And that's when the announcement about the ghost hunt had come out.

At first, he tried to convince himself that it was purely accidental. But after only a few seconds of pushing that theory on his disbelieving mind Bobby finally accepted the fact that he'd brought it up on purpose.

"Fine, Dean. You go ahead and do your therapy all by yourself. I've got a hunt next town over to research. I'll just be on the computer if you need anything."

On some level, Bobby knew that having a specific goal to work towards - heal in time to help on the hunt - would be the best way to get Dean moving positively toward healing. Sam meant well trying to shelter his brother from the world, and lord only knew the police on their trail didn't help matters, but in the long run hiding Dean from everything else was only detrimental.

Dean stopped mid-stride, swaying on his feet from his abrupt stop. "A hhhunnt?" Dean asked, curiosity noticeably piqued.

Bobby shrugged, nonchalant and somewhat bored. "It's nothing you need to worry about, Dean. You've got better things to worry about bud. You need to focus on getting you better."

"I c-can hhhelp," Dean protested, standing his ground and suddenly becoming so much less shaky on his weakened leg.

That was when Bobby realized just how right he'd been to try this particular tactic. A hunt, in Dean's mind, was the most worthy thing to fight for. He hated to be left out. And hated even more the idea of Sam being without his superior protection.

"Don't worry about it, Dean. Seriously. Sam and I have it covered." Bam. Right to the gut.

Dean's eyes widened at the same time he pinched his lips together, clearly unhappy about the 'crew' Bobby had gathered for the hunt.

Bobby had one more ace up his sleeve before he was ready to ask Dean to let him help with the therapy. "Face it, Dean. As much as I hate to say it, you're just not capable of going on a hunt right now. I'm sorry, Dean."

Immediately, Dean's face fell. But the rest of him seemed to grow stronger, steadier, in the face of adversity. Bobby pushed aside the initial guilt he felt over saying what he had, encouraging himself to look towards the larger picture. His ploy was working, and going soft wasn't the way to finish this.

"P-peopllle arrre d-d-dying?" Dean asked.

An affirmative nod was all Bobby offered at first, and then he realized what Dean was really asking, and added to the response. Dean was playing right into his hands. "It's an abandoned farm house, so no, nobody is in immediate danger. But it's on the market again. Don't really know when someone new might be dumb enough to buy it." He crossed his arms and scrutinized the young man for a minute, gears turning steadily in his mind. "We might be able to postpone it for a few days if you really want to work on being able to come."

A light went off in Dean's eyes, immediately displaying the hope shining through his expression. "I d-do. I c-can hhhelp."

"But you've got to let me help, too. You can't rest all of this on your brother."

Dean nodded in agreement.

"And you've got to put everything you've got into this recovery. No throwing a temper tantrum just because you don't want me here."

Dean's head bobbed faster, more eager.

"And Sam and I get the final say on whether or not you're ready to go on this hunt. If we get down to a deadline and we don't think you're ready, you have to accept that."

For a second Dean hesitated, giving pause to the idea, but finally gave his assent when the thought of the alternative entered his mind. If he knew Bobby Singer this was an all or nothing deal. He nodded again.

He offered no additional arguments during the time Bobby worked his leg with him, rolled no eyes at the un-Sammy-like way Bobby coached him on his speech, and didn't push away from the manhandling treatment Bobby gave his arm. Their's was an understanding based on respect (and a little bit of knavery), but whatever it was, it was working.

Dean's determination and confidence that he would get to a point where he could go on this hunt with Bobby and Sam was so strong he could see no other alternative. And that was the mindset Sam walked into later that morning when he learned that it had taken less than twenty-four hours to turn Dean around on the subject of Bobby being there. He couldn't help but feel a little hurt, a little jealous, that it had taken such a small, seemingly inconsequential promise on Bobby's part to make Dean okay with it all. And to top that off he was pissed.

Bobby had no right to make that promise. He couldn't help but worry that eventually the hunt would culminate into an urgency, and Dean wouldn't be ready. From the stories and accounts he had read, it took months, sometimes years, for stroke victims to be healed enough to retain normal life. And sure, Dean was a fast healer, but that didn't mean he would be ready to go on some hunt in the next few weeks. In the end, Sam was certain they would have to leave Dean behind to finish this thing, and he feared he would end up being portrayed as the bad guy. Bobby made the promise; but Sam would be the one to break it. Not fair.


	18. Chapter 18

**_I held off on holding this for a couple days. I'm thrilled that they got the system fixed so quickly this time. Thanks for waiting. Enjoy!_**

"You had no right!" Sam hissed angrily the minute he and Bobby found a minute alone. It didn't happen until later that night when, once again, Dean was passed out from another

full day of exhausting therapy. The minute the older Winchester started snoring Sam had grabbed hold of Bobby's flannel shirt and dragged him up the stairs and out the front door to the crumbled sidewalk beyond.

"He's vulnerable right now, Bobby. Telling him about that hunt is only going to make him feel worse when we go out there without him."

"Who says we're going without him?" Bobby challenged, crossing his arms tight against his chest. He drew himself up, trying to look menacing in the face of Sam's significantly greater height.

Sam balked, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as he processed the words Bobby had the nerve to speak to him. His faculties finally came back to him in a flood of pretentious words. "He's not coming, Bobby. He can barely stand and his right arm doesn't work at all. We'd spend the entire hunt just dragging him around. It's too dangerous. It's not gonna happen."

"No, not today. But he needs something to focus on; to work towards. And the hunt can wait."

"Wait for how long, Bobby? We don't know how much time this healing thing is going to take. And he's already pushing himself too hard. Have you _noticed_ the insane schedule he's got himself on already?"

"I've noticed the monotony in it all. But just because he's putting a lot of time into it doesn't mean he's putting a lot of effort into it. He's got no heart put into his recovery."

Sam raised his hands in exasperation before slapping them against his thighs and pacing in frustration. "He's got plenty of heart, Bobby. He's putting everything he's got into healing. He _wants_ to get better more than he's ever wanted anything in his life."

"Oh really?" Bobby asked, leaning against the door as he watched Sam pace. "Seems to me you don't know your brother as well as you think you do."

"What?" Sam stopped short, glaring as he spun around to challenge the man. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact that Dean isn't trying to get better for himself as much as he is for you."

"You don't know anything, old man," Sam glowered. His lower lip trembled in his anger, unable to fully suppress the idea of Bobby's suggestion within his mind.

"Don't I?" Bobby raised his eyes. "Seems to me Dean's done nothing _but_ push himself for you his whole life. He'd do anything for his baby brother."

"And that makes you think he doesn't want to get better for himself? You honestly think Dean _wants_ to be like he is right now?"

Letting out a huff of air, Bobby shook his head. "You just don't get it, kid, do you?"

"Apparently not. So why don't you explain it to me - seeing as how you're the wise old master of all things Dean."

Bobby blinked, masking the fact that Sam's words hurt. He'd expected the young man to be upset about Bobby going over his head in making the decision to tell Dean about the hunt. He just hadn't expected Sam to be so unreceptive to trying to help his brother.

"It's not that he doesn't want to get better for himself, Sam, it's just that right now he's more focused on getting better for _you._ The minute I mentioned the hunt to Dean there was a change in him. You should have seen it Sam. He was clinging to that damn walker like it was the hope diamond or something, and then I say something about the hunt and his entire posture changed. He was standing straighter, steadier. It was like he'd advanced weeks, months, on his recovery in the course of a few seconds. I've never seen anything like it."

"He was probably just feeling stronger after eating," Sam replied, desperation and denial filtering through his voice. "You can't do this to him, Bobby. Don't you understand just how much trouble telling him about that damn hunt is going to cause? He's going to push himself even harder than he already is, and he's still not going to be ready, and _I'm _the one whose going to have to break the news to him."

"Is that what this is all about, Sam? You worrying about having to be the bad guy?" Bobby's voice rose several decibels in volume as he pushed away from the door and stood menacingly in front of Sam, fists clenching in frustration as he tried to wrangle the youngest Winchester to his line of thinking.

"Well shouldn't I be?" Sam demanded, raising the volume of his own voice to match Bobby's and standing just as threateningly.

"No, Sam! No. I think you need to give your brother a little credit. Just chill out and let him work towards his goal without you doubting him all the time. Deal with the hunt _if_ and only if the time comes for it. But for now, just stop trying to bring him down. It's almost like you don't want your brother to get better."

Mouth agape, Sam seemed at a loss for words. His eyes were as wide as saucers, glistening with moisture at the sting of Bobby's words. "How can you say that to me?"

Bobby immediately stepped back from Sam, mouth opening and closing futilely. He couldn't take back what he'd said and he really didn't know how to fix it now that it was out. "Sam I'm sorry," he tried. "I didn't mean–"

"Obviously you did or you wouldn't have said it."

"Sam, I–"

"No, Bobby. Tell me what you mean. You're clearly thinking I'm doing something I shouldn't be doing, so just tell me." All of a sudden Sam was starting to think he should have listened to Dean and not let the older man come help. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he was deeply regretting it.

"It just seems like you're holding him back. All I've heard out of your mouth since we met up the other day is 'Dean can't do this,' and 'Dean isn't ready for that.' If _you're _thinking it and saying it, just imagine what he's hearing. Crist, Sam, he needs to know you're rooting for him but all you're doing is making him doubt himself."

"I am not!" Sam protested wildly. It was all he could do not to lash out and clobber the man who called himself his friend. "I've done nothing _but_ support Dean. I was there for him in the hospital, even when he didn't want me there. I got him out of there and away from the cops - hell, I committed check fraud for him! And here, I've put up with his crazy schedule. I let him do what he wanted, gave him the freedom to work on his therapy _how _he wantedHow can you say I've been holding him back?"

Bobby shrugged apologetically, wishing he didn't have to explain himself. "Are you even listening to yourself? You _put up _with his schedule, you _let him_, you _gave him_ - it's like you're some kind of charity. You know as well as I do that with Dean it can't be about what you offer, it's what you create."

The older man threw up his hands in exasperation, still heavy on his rant but feeling the need for a more physical emphasis on his frustration. "I mean, hell, the stubborn bastard has to decide on his own what he's going to do, but he's not going to get there if you don't plant the seed first. And you're just letting him flounder like a fish out of water."

At this Sam seemed to deflate, sinking bonelessly into the lawn chair next to the door. He dropped his head into his hand, raising his eyes to see Bobby as he quietly asked, "you really think I'm screwing this up?"

Changing Sam's outlook on how he helped Dean went a long way towards getting the older Winchester back on his feet. Not that Sam was yet in agreement to allowing Dean to come on the hunt with them, but he'd promised both Dean and Bobby to wait and cross that bridge when the time came.

Bobby kept tabs on the house, knowing that they would have to make a move at the first sign of disturbance. For weeks, even before Dean and Sam headed to the area, it had sat idle. He'd been sitting on it himself for quite awhile, putting more pressing hunts before this one. The only reason he had brought it out at all was because of Sam and Dean's location; he'd figured he could kill two birds with one stone by sending them to the area.

At this point, there really wasn't a pressing time frame. And the house's history had enough people in the town steering clear. Their problem would come when news of its market status spread to out-of-towners looking for a quiet get-away for the weekend. Then they would have to move.

In the meantime, Dean was making marked progress on his therapy. Bobby and Sam had silently called a truce, neither one of them willing to bother Dean with the particulars of their dispute, and they now split up the day evenly.

Despite the relative success of their first morning working together, Dean still wasn't comfortable having Bobby assist him with showers and other personal care routines, so Sam still did all of that. But beyond that, Bobby took the morning shift while Sam worked on breakfast and lunch, and researched more ways to help Dean. After lunch, Sam took over while Bobby poured himself into research on hunting – particularly the old farm house – and worked on ideas for how Dean could help them even if he wasn't up to par.

Bobby started making dinner for the boys, much to both Dean and Sam's delight. He was a much better cook than the two Winchester boys put together, and it wasn't long before Dean even started putting some weight back onto his quickly thinning form.

Two weeks after Bobby showed up had Dean traversing the downstairs with just the cane and no additional assistance. It had been several days since he had banished Sam to the couch, ordering him to stay there until Dean either asked for him or fell, before continuing to make his rounds between the kitchen and the living room. Bobby, who had delegated himself to the couch a day before that, sat at the kitchen table smirking to himself as he noticed the incredulous look on young Sam's face.

But to his credit, Sam had kept his protests to himself, instead taking pleasure in the fact that Dean's order had been almost completely devoid of stutters and slurs. It was with much consternation that Dean accepted the fact that his most desired letter to perfect, the 's', was the one giving him the most trouble. He still slurred his esses and c's and still stumbled over d's, t's, but otherwise his speech was near flawless once again.

Much of the speech improvement was due to Bobby's patient work as he pulled past experiences of his own out of his immense cache of information. Who would have guessed it, but the old guy used to be a stutterer when he was a kid. The speech therapy Bobby had gone through as a kid utilized much the same techniques as Dean needed now, and soon he was making improvements left and right. Sam's pride was the only thing getting in the way of acknowledging Bobby's usefulness in the matter. Many of the techniques the mechanic had employed were things Sam never would have even dreamed of doing, and he – silently – had to admit that Dean probably wouldn't have progressed nearly that fast if it hadn't been for Bobby's help.

The only thing still refusing to improve was his arm, and Dean was beyond frustrated as he worked day and night trying to get the stubborn limb to respond. Sam was at his wits end trying to come up with more exercises to awaken the arm, but nothing was working.

Dean had almost no grip in his hand, and his fine motor skills were nill. His arm itself would flex straight, but he couldn't bend his elbow or lift at the shoulder without employing the left hand for assistance, which meant that moving or stacking anything was hopeless.

Weeks earlier, Sam had purchased a bag of plastic cups for Dean to work on stacking and unstacking, but they still remained tightly sealed in their original packaging as the trio waited out the limb's stubbornness.

The closest to any kind of response Dean experienced was to loosely grip his stress ball, fingers barely surrounding the squishy material as his arm sat limply on the kitchen table.

On more than one occasion he had been close to tears, angrily wiping his eyes to hide his weakness as he argued that 'he had something in his eye.' On those instances Sam or Bobby, whoever had been helping at the time, would find some reason to excuse themselves while Dean regained his composure. They didn't want to watch the normally stoic Winchester breakdown any more than Dean wanted them to see it happen. So it was an 'I'm gonna use the can,' here and an 'I'm totally parched, I need a water,' there; anything to remove themselves from the situation.

And then came the present situation, almost three weeks after Bobby appeared, which had Sam was frantically tearing through the house in search of his brother. He had come downstairs from a restful nights sleep to find both his brother and Bobby missing, the sound of the shower running in the background. But he didn't think much of it, instead grabbing a cup of coffee as he sat down at the table for a few minutes of peace before the day officially started.

At first, Sam was a little hurt at the fact that Dean had asked Bobby for help instead of waiting for his little brother to appear. But several minutes later, when Bobby appeared with wet hair sans Dean, Sam went postal. It was only then that he realized, Sam or no Sam, Dean was too far along in his therapy now to allow anyone else _in_ the bathroom with him as he showered. He only allowed Sam in as a last resort, if his leg was feeling just a little too unsteady that morning or if he'd decided on a button up shirt.

"Where the hell is Dean?" Sam demanded, jumping from his spot at the table as it hit him that his brother had disappeared. His brother who, until apparently today, hadn't left – hadn't been able to leave – the downstairs confines of the cabin since the night they arrived.

The surprise that clouded Sam's face told him more than the words Bobby eventually spoke. He had no idea where his brother was, either. "He was still sleeping when I got down here."

"Well he's not sleeping now." Sam tore from the kitchen, running to the living room and checking behind the chair and the couch in fear that Dean might have fallen and been knocked unconscious. But a quick search through the lower level proved futile. The older Winchester brother was nowhere to be found.

"Dean! Dean!" Sam started hollering as he made his way frantically up the stairs to the upstairs bedrooms at the same time that Bobby scrambled for the screened-in porch off of the living room. Neither one wanted to consider the alternative, that Dean had disappeared from the cabin altogether.

It wasn't long before they both had to admit their fears, though, and they both met at the front door, exchanging frantic glances before heading outside. The crumbling stairs to the upper level of the property looked even more menacing at the thought that Dean had climbed them himself. But Sam couldn't shake the feeling that Dean would have first headed to his car on an outdoor reconnaissance mission. His leg may have been doing tremendously better, but Sam still didn't think the tenuous foothold those steps provided were the best option for his injured brother.

"Dean! You damn well better have a good explanation!" Sam screamed, taking the steps two at a time and stumbling in his progress. Where the hell was he?

Finally reaching the top of the stairs, Sam sprinted for the Impala, hand reaching out for the door handle before he had even made it to the car. His brain registered Dean's absence half a second later, and Sam screamed in frustration. "DEAN!"

He looked back to Bobby who was just cresting the stairs himself, imploring the older hunter to do something. To find his brother. Turn back the clock. Anything.

In Sam's mind his thoughts were running a mile a minute, warring between Dean's incapability to get very far and his determination to go beyond his incapabilities. He wanted to convince himself that Dean couldn't be far, and desperately worked on that thought. But in reality he knew Dean could be anywhere. And without knowing why he had taken off in the first place, Sam really had no idea where to start looking.

It was then, in the midst of swirling frantic thoughts, that Sam came up with a horrifying realization. "The lake," he said, already tearing past Bobby to get down the steep incline of property to where the lake was situated several hundred feet down the hill at the end of a long pier.

Images of Dean floating face down in the crystal water plagued Sam's thoughts as he shoved his way through overgrown grass and bushes and trees to get down there as quickly as possible. Bobby was fast on his heels, calling out for him to slow down, to calm down, to _breathe. _He wouldn't be any help to Dean if he suffered a heart attack or a stroke of his own before he could find him.

Sam picked up the speed, stumbling over the treacherous terrain in his haste to find his brother, fearing the worst. They were halfway down the hill, still too far away to see the lake through the foliage, when the shot rang out. And then another. And a third. Six shots rang out in total, all in rapid succession, before a dead silence filled the air. Nothing stirred; creatures and birds creating an unnatural quiet in a woods that was usually full of life.

Mere seconds seemed to drone on for a lifetime before Sam was able to process exactly what it was he had just heard. Bobby came to a staggering stop, just barely running into Sam as he reached out an arm squeezing his hands on Sam's shoulders to comfort. They knew what gunshots meant, and it was never good. And from the sound of things Dean was in some serious trouble.

Finally the world came back into focus, although the stillness and silence continued with the exception of one extremely frantic Winchester as he broke free of Bobby Singer's grasp to resume his search of his missing brother. "DEEEEEEAAAAAAN!"


	19. Chapter 19

**_Well you guys are all too smart for your own good. Either that, or I'm so totally predictable it's not even funny. Hopefully it's the former and not the latter, or I might find myself out of a job. hehe. Anyway, since so many of you guessed correctly what was going on with Dean I went ahead and rewrote the beginning of the chapter to make it more angst worthy. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for reading!_**

So many terrifying thoughts raced through Sam's head as he stood, frozen in place, while gunshot after gunshot resounded from somewhere behind the house. But his paralysis lasted only seconds before instinct kicked in. Adrenaline coursing though his veins, Sam took off at a dead sprint in the direction of the shots. He hoped for the best, but feared the worst.

He held the vague knowledge that Bobby was mere inches behind him, panting hard as his aging limbs vied to keep pace with the much younger hunter in front of him. But the sheer magnitude of his speed told Sam more than the dead silence that filled the air now that the sounds of the shots had cleared. Bobby Singer was scared. A man who had never shown fear to Sam in all the years he had known him, yet right now, he was terrified for Dean's well being.

Rounding the corner of the house, Sam frantically scanned the entire area in search of Dean. His hopes were quickly dashed when, after a thorough look, there was no sign of his missing brother.

The trees were deathly still in the absence of a breeze. And the lake reflected back with the clarity of a newly polished mirror. Sam found himself breathing a sigh of relief that there was no noticeable disruption in the water, no ripples. Dean hadn't fallen in.

But if he wasn't there then where the hell was he? Where had the gunshots come from?

"DEAN!" Sam screamed. For another minute he stood still, feet splayed apart as his arms rose high in desperation. He scanned the area more slowly, convinced that he was standing within feet of where the shots had sounded.

It was on the second round of inspection over the property that he felt Bobby's hand fall to his shoulder as the older man quietly issued a 'shhh.'

Sam's eyes widened, staring intently at Bobby as he stilled even his breathing to listen for what it was he should be hearing. Seconds passed in frustrating silence as no sound came through. And Sam was just about to give up, commence screaming for his brother, when he heard it.

The low groan was barely audible, and Sam almost thought he was hearing things. Except then it came again. And then a third time. From somewhere off in the bushes near the back porch, and Sam immediately sprinted toward the sound.

"Dean? Where are you?"

He saw the gun first, laying in the tall grass a few feet away from the evergreens that surrounded the large, open porch. Didn't know whether to be relieved or more scared. And then saw the tips of Deans sneakered feet sticking out from behind the bush nearest the steps.

Sam traversed the remaining distance to his brother, Bobby not far behind, and fell to his knees at Dean's side.

The older Winchester blinked groggily at the two frantic men staring at him and reached back to rub at the quickly forming knot at the back of his head. He groaned again, mouth opening and closing several times before he managed to get the sound to back his words.

"Why ssso frant-tic?" he asked innocently, trying to use his good hand to both prop him up to a sit and still rub at his sore head at the same time. It didn't work, and he quickly found himself back flat on the ground as he decided sitting up wasn't worth removing pressure from the throbbing goose-egg he was quickly growing.

Incredulity immediately displayed on Sam's face as he warred within himself over whether to help Dean sit up or leave him to rot on the ground. "Do you have any idea how scared I was when I realized you'd gone missing? And then I heard the gunshots... Damn it, Dean, what the hell were you thinking?"

Dean blinked again, and winced, as Bobby finally decided to take pity on the poor kid and help him up. It was clear Sam was too pissed off to offer any assistance just yet. He nodded his gratitude to the older man as he steadied himself on his feet, but shook off the assistance quickly.

Still unsteady on his feet, Dean swayed a bit before he reached out a hand and grabbed tight to the railing, desperately trying to look casual about it before answering Sam. "Had t-to get out of there," he said smoothly, barely a sign of his speech problem. "I wass going crazy."

Sam sighed in exasperation, rising to his own feet to stare his brother down. "The gunshots, Dean?"

Shrugging, Dean looked to the ground where his gun now lay, and mumbled, "Had t-t-to sssee if I could ssstill shoot. With my shoot-ting hand out-t of comissssion."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And could you still shoot?" Sam demanded, starting to pace as he realized getting a straight answer out of Dean would be like pulling teeth. Especially since he suspected the answer to be one Dean wouldn't want to admit to.

"Well...sort of." Dean had yet to look up, to make eye contact with either Bobby or Sam. The toe of his weaker leg scuffed at the ground as he held his balance with the other leg.

"Sort of, how?" Sam demanded.

"Gun went off just fine."

"Yeah, I heard that. But how were _you?_ Better yet, how did _you_ end up down _there_?" Sam's hand brushed in the direction of the ground, waving over it with a grand flourish of exasperation.

"Just drop it, Sam." Dean's voice came out slightly louder as his annoyance shone through. He slowly turned, ready to head up the stairs to escape the inquisition. But Bobby stopped him with a firm hand tightening around his shoulder.

"If you plan to hunt with us we need to know how your game is," the old hunter said gruffly. The remainder of his statement went unsaid, but the implication was understood by all three. _If you plan for us to trust that you've got our backs, we need to know you're on top of your game._

"I jussst lossst my balance isss all," Dean insisted, shaking out of Bobby's grasp and glaring at his opposition. "It could happen t-to anyone."

"But it didn't, Dean. It happened to you," Sam pressed. "You don't lose your balance."

"Yeah, well I did this time," Dean snapped.

"Why? Because your leg isn't right yet? Because you're still weak?"

"I just wasn't prepared for the recoil! It's no big deal, Sam. Doesn't mean I'm not ready."

Sam sighed and shared a look with Bobby as he dragged a heavy hand through sweaty, tangled locks. _What do we do? What am I supposed to say to him?_

Understanding crossed between the two, at least an understanding of the question, and Bobby chimed in with an answer before Sam could even collect his thoughts. "You'll come with us Dean, it's alright. Just stop being so damn impulsive when it comes to proving yourself. You had your brother and me worried sick when we couldn't find you."

As Dean relaxed, clearly thrilled to be given the go ahead on the hunt, Sam fought a losing battle over his feelings on Bobby's expropriation of duty once more. It was at least the second time the man had overstepped his bounds on the Dean front, and Sam was more than pissed at his lack of respect for Sam's position. It wasn't Bobby's place to make such decisions in their lives. He had no right telling Dean he could go on the hunt without at least discussing it with Sam first.

The young Winchester glared at Bobby as he took a step closer to his brother, effectively planting himself between the two men. "We'll _talk_ about it, _Bobby_. Nothing has been decided yet."

From the periphery, Sam saw Dean deflate at his words and his gut clenched. Exactly what he had feared would happen was; _he_ was becoming the bad guy simply because he was voicing his insecurities at Dean's ability to fare well when put in the middle of a dangerous hunt.

Why was that fair? Why should he have to be hated simply because Bobby thought Dean was ready and he didn't? If Singer hadn't brought up the stupid hunt in the first place they wouldn't even be in this situation. But no, there was a ghost to be destroyed and Dean was bound and determined to join in the festivities. Life threatening head injury be damned.

For a second Sam stopped to think about the situation, if terms were reversed. It didn't take long for him to realize that Dean would be doing the exact same thing if it was Sam just barely on his feet after being felled by a life-altering stroke, and he made sure to tell Dean just that.

"That'sss differen-t," Dean insisted, releasing his hold on the railing to confront his brother at a more even level. Although his argument wasn't easily won while he continued to favor his immobile hand, holding it tight against his stomach in its most natural 'bent' position.

"How, Dean? How is that different?"

"It jussst isss. I'm your big brother. I'm sssupposssed t-to prot-tect you."

Sam snorted his amusement and turned on one heel to get away, effectively calling a halt to Dean's confrontation tactic. "We're both adults, Dean. You don't need to protect me anymore. I can take care of myself."

"And I can t-t-take care of myssself," Dean said, taking a halting step towards his brother. "You don't have to worry about me."

"Except that I do! Why were you on the ground just now? Why were you rubbing your head? That's why I have to worry about you, Dean. You're not ready yet!"

"Ssso help me _get_ ready!" The older brother was near screaming now, face so red it was closer to purple. And Bobby had backed off so far he was practically around the side of the house. This argument was a long time in coming, and he didn't figure he needed to be involved in it right now. The boys had some things that needed to be worked out.

To his credit, Sam had the decency to shut his mouth on the retort that threatened to spew back the minute Dean screamed his plea. Instead, he floundered, unsure where to go from there.

'I am helping you,' clearly wasn't the right response because Dean obviously felt as though he was being neglected. Just as Bobby had pointed out before, Sam was only doing just enough to get Dean through the difficult times. He wasn't willing to push his brother any further than need be, and on some level he figured it was due to his own insecurities.

There was a constant feeling of failure weighing on Sam that maybe Dean would never be back to one hundred percent. And as long as they didn't put every last ounce of focus they had into his recovery, Sam could always just say they needed to work a little harder and that was why he wasn't perfect. But the minute they put everything they had into recovery, he didn't have a consolation if Dean never regained use of his arm.

And then there was the worry that Dean could get hurt again. More. Worse. And Sam wasn't sure he could deal with that as a possibility. Especially if they went into the house knowing Dean wasn't up to par. Sam knew he would never forgive himself if Dean ended up aggravating his injuries on Sam's watch. .

He hesitated, thisclose to telling Dean that he wasn't going to be a party to a suicide mission, that Dean was still too far from ready to get back into the hunt. And then he looked at his brother; actually _looked_. Saw the pleading and the desperation, the sheer hopelessness at being kept from the one thing that made his life worth continuing on. And realized that he couldn't deny his brother hit hearts desire.

"Alright," Sam finally agreed, feeling as though he had been giving in a lot lately. "Alright, we'll work on it. Lemme see what you've got."

Sam bent down to retrieve the gun from the dew moistened grass and handed it over to Dean in one motion, afraid that if he thought about it too long he might change his mind.

Dean shrugged, but didn't go for the weapon. "Out of bullet-tsss."

"So get some more," Sam pushed, rolling his eyes. His brother could be so _dense_ sometimes - or maybe lazy was the better word for it. He would fight and fight for what he wanted, but once he got it he cut corners left and right.

Stalling for a few seconds more, Dean played with the railing, running his fingers from one screw to the next. But he finally turned to the steps and made his way to the deck above. He really was moving a whole world better than he had been, but that didn't mean he was completely healed. It tore at Sam to see his brother so vulnerable as he took the steps one at a time, both feet making contact with each riser because of the weakness in his right leg.

As Sam waited for Dean to return he caught sight of Bobby lingering just on the edge of the cabin, eavesdropping on the brothers' conversation with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He fought the urge to say anything, but Sam's glare said enough. _This is all your fault, old man. If anything happens to his it's all on you. _

Bobby didn't react, just kept that stupid grin on his face as he disappeared from view around the side of the house. As Sam debated over whether or not to go after him, he heard the door slam on the house and looked up to see Dean returning, box of bullets in his good hand and gun tucked under his arm.

At the top of the stairs, Dean extended his arm as far as it would go without dropping the gun and tried to hand the box to Sam.

"What's that?" Sam asked, playing dumb. He knew what his brother's angle was, but he wasn't about to let him get off easy. If Dean wanted to prove his capabilities on a hunt he was going to have to go _all_ the way.

"The bullet-tsss, t-to load the gun."

"What do you expect me to do with them? It's your gun."

Dean glared at Sam, retracting the proffered box and dropping it on the railing before easing the gun from between arm and side, adding it beside the box. "Sam..."

"Sam, what? You want to hunt with us, you need to be able to load your own gun. I may not always be by your side." Sam knew his words were harsh, and he immediately hated himself for pushing so hard. He was well aware that Dean's useless right arm made a lot of things difficult, at times even impossible, to pull off. And seeing the pleading in his brother's eyes, Sam knew he wanted nothing less than to admit that having only one arm made it too difficult to easily reload a clip, knew it was painful to admit that his balance was off and that he might not be able to stay standing in the face of an attack, but those were liabilities. If Dean couldn't work through them he wouldn't be safe on a hunt.

Hesitating, hand hovering over the box of rounds and the gun, trying to decide just how important this hunt was to him. Was it worth it to make a fool of himself as he tried to load the gun? As he tried to shoot? Tried to fight?

Dean finally made a decision, pushing all negative thoughts out of his head. He had to do this, had to prove he could. If not to Sam and Bobby, then to himself.

Taking a deep breath, Dean resigned himself to do whatever it took. He grabbed the gun first, dropping its clip from its chamber, and then opened the box of bullets. That was the easy part. Loading the bullets was going to prove the hard part with only one good arm.

Immediately he was fumbling with the rounds, finding it difficult to both push the bullet into the clip and keep the clip from sliding all over the railing. Dean finally ended up using his hip to block the clips movement as he slid the remaining rounds in. After replacing the clip back into the gun with relative ease Dean glance back down at Sam, smugness and relief filling his expression.

"That's a start," Sam nodded. "Now let's see you shoot."

"Yeah, alright." Dean's gripped the gun, holding his clammy hand tightly around the cool metal as he tried to hide the trembling. What Sam had missed in Dean's last endeavor was the hefty recoil knocking him completely off balance and causing him to hit his head against the deck railing. He had kept his finger on the hair-trigger of the semi-automatic, easily firing off more rounds despite his downward descent as he continued trying to aim at the three soda cans he had set up at the water's edge.

Looking out there now as he made his way slowly down the stairs, Dean could see that all three cans were still sitting there, completely untouched.

Sam followed his brother's gaze, seeing the cans, and sighed, fighting the remorse he felt at Dean's loss. He had his suspicions about what had happened, but seeing the unharmed cans sitting so innocuously at the edge of the lake hammered it home. Dean had missed all the cans because of the lack of balance. Dean never missed.

It was obvious that Dean was anxious about attempting the shots in front of Sam and he took several minutes just to steady himself on the lawn, standing with his legs shoulder width apart and keeping himself unnaturally close to the side of the deck. He was preparing for another attack from the recoil, hoping that the close proximity to the structure would keep him safely on his feet.

They both held their breath as Dean finally raised the gun and took aim at the first can. He had often shot one handed, without a second to steady the position, but it was less often that he had done so with his left hand. It was unusual to see the hunter in such an awkward shooting stance, but he was a Winchester. And he was determined to adapt to the situation. He was determined to make it to the hunt.

The first shot missed by a mile, and Dean was tossed backwards the few inches he had allowed behind him, smacking into the wooden slats on the railing. But he grit his teeth, steadied himself again, and fired, all without ever looking up to see the concern on his baby brother's face. Sam's doting would do neither one of them any good.

The second shot winged the can, sending it flying off at an obscure angle as Dean, once again, fell back into the decking. But he couldn't contain the sense of accomplishment he felt at actually hitting a target, regardless of what the recoil still did to him physically. Glancing at Sam cautiously out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see his brother repressing a smile behind his stern exterior. It only propelled the older Winchester on harder and he went for his third shot.

Dean's aim got progressively better, his balance increasingly steadier the longer he worked. By the time Sam finally convince his brother to call it a day they had been outside for close to three hours, having gone through more than fifty rounds. It was only after Sam audibly voiced his willingness to let Dean come along on a recon mission Bobby had planned at the farmhouse the next night that Dean finally agreed to end his practice and come inside for some work on his arm.

Bobby sat at the kitchen table when the brother's walked in, and Sam didn't miss the look that passed between Bobby and Dean - one of gratitude, bonding, as though they shared some private joke or thought. Sam couldn't help but wonder if Bobby maybe hadn't been as innocent in Dean's disappearance as he had initially let on. But the elation he was feeling over Dean's morning success kept him from calling the other two on it. He had literally watched with his own two eyes Dean go from the impossible to the possible in a matter of hours. It was the first time since the stroke had felled his brother that Sam truly felt a full recovery was not only possible, but on the verge of accomplishment. In watching Dean working on his target practice, Sam had seen something he hadn't seen in his brother since this whole mess had started. Dean's confidence was back.


	20. Chapter 20

**_I know, I know, I'm so totally late on this it's not even funny. And the chapter is short to boot! Please don't hate me. I've been trying to write while filling out mondo job applications, looking for a new car, and trying to find a house to buy. To top that off, I had family in this weekend. I know it sounds totally fabricated, but it's all true. So until I am done seeking out a new job, car, and house, please bear with me and understand if I'm a little bit more tardy on my postings. It has an abrupt ending, but it was either stop here or wait several more days for another post. Hope you approve of the decision! Thanks for sticking with me. _**

The old Victorian Era farmhouse was built at the turn of the century and sat in the middle of five acres of overgrown field. At one time the home had been blue with white gingerbread trim. Now the entire ambiance was more grey. The paint on the wooden siding was chipping and peeling. The windows, although all intact, were dusty.

In the eaves of the large wraparound porch was a large hornets nest, about the only sign of life in the once thriving home. Yet despite its rundown appearance, the foundation was solid. It wasn't hard to imagine the house back up to par with a few cosmetic improvements. Minus one angry ghost, this house held a great deal of potential.

Sam pulled the Impala to a stop at the entrance to the winding driveway and allowed it to idle as Bobby jumped out and picked the lock on the wrought iron gate that blocked their entrance to the rest of the property. He peeked up at the rearview mirror, strategically placed so that he could see nothing of the road behind him and everything of the backseat where his brother sat.

Dean was fidgeting, eyes bouncing nervously between Bobby and the house as his good hand made frantic circles in the flesh of his still immobile right arm. In his lap was the brace Sam had insisted he bring along, if not for the support than for the added protection it would provide. The last thing they needed was for Dean to take a spill and end up breaking something in the arm without even knowing about it. This, at least, meant a semblance of safety. But he had yet to put it on.

"You ready for this?" Sam finally asked, making a conscious effort to keep his voice even and void of accusation. The fact that Dean had readily accepted a position in the backseat, not even trying to fight Bobby for shotgun - or, for that matter, Sam for the keys - had Sam on edge and feeling as though his stubborn brother wasn't telling him something.

They were only here for a bit of recon, a quick in and out in the bright daylight, just to see what they were getting into. Because of the house's distance from any other property they could do their investigation without worry of being seen, and the time of day meant an added bit of security.

Putting an immediate stop to his restlessness, Dean forced a smile back at his brother. "Yeah. Ready and wait-ting."

Sam was going to say more, ask more, but Bobby had finished up with the gate and climbed back into the car before he had the chance. "Alright boys, lets get this show on the road."

"You want to run though the game plan once more, Bobby?" Sam asked, eyeing Dean in the mirror again. He could tell his brother needed something to take his mind off or himself, of his anxieties, and he hoped that a confirmation of who would be doing what just might take care of that problem.

Bobby nodded. "I'd really like to figure out where the bodies are hidden. It would be nice if we could finish this today, before the sun goes down. But the least we can do is figure out a few places to look so that when we're being chased through this house by those spirits we'll have the information to work with."

He looked to the two Winchester boys for confirmation, at least the knowledge that they were in agreement with him, and then went on. "So I figure I'll take the second floor and the attic. You two take the first floor and the basement. Look for trap doors and false walls, somewhere that Old McCoy could have dragged his dead wife and then killed himself. These old houses, they could be hiding just about anywhere."

All too often in these hunts they found their best plan of action was just to follow the spook though his nightly haunt until he gave himself away. It was common knowledge that these ghosts would protect what was most valuable to them, and that was most often their remains. Afterall, they couldn't remain on the stratosphere if they were burnt to a crisp.

But it never hurt to have a bit of an edge. Going into these huge houses without prior knowledge of the floorplan was usually a dangerous idea, normally resulting in someone coming away with a bit less blood flowing through their veins and a few more bruises mottling their skin. Despite his misgivings on Bobby's intrusion on their life, Sam couldn't help but be thankful for the older man's quick thinking on the idea for a pre-look. It made it just a bit easier to breathe with Dean on the hunt.

"Sounds like a good plan," Sam agreed, bringing the car to a stop in front of the house. He was out and collecting weapons from the trunk before either of the other two had

made it from the vehicle. It was a bit of a control thing, not necessarily where Bobby was concerned, but definitely where Dean was concerned.

Sam had already determined that it made more sense to give Dean more equipment and less weaponry. He wanted to make sure Dean had the EMF reader, the camcorder, and maybe a small handgun filled with rocksalt. But Sam was going to load himself up with the major weaponry; the double barreled shotgun with rocksalt rounds, another sawed off with consecrated iron, the salt crusted iron broadsword on his hip. Bobby had his own cache of weapons, and Sam wasn't going to worry about his choices.

Dean had other ideas.

As Sam was busy strategizing, meticulously separating his own weapons from those he planned to give Dean and placing them in two piles, his brother was simply going for the weapons.

Dean reached into the trunk and grabbed the sawed off, stuffing it into his waistband before Sam could react. He was going for the shotgun when Sam's finger's gripped around his wrist.

"I'm taking the sawed-off, Dean."

Glaring at Sam, looking totally affronted, Dean put a hand on the grip of the weapon. "I alwayss get the sssawed off."

Sam shook his head as he held his hand out expectantly. "Not today, Dean. Today it's mine." He reached into the trunk for the EMF and the handgun and thrust them at his brother. But his faux placating gesture was taken for exactly what it was, control.

"Dean, come on," Sam practically whined as his brother stubbornly refused to take the proffered weapons. "Dude, be realistic."

"Sam, I'm aware of my limitations man. Hell, I wake up to them every day - it's kinda hard to ignore them," Dean argued, his frustrations clear as he tried to hide the undertones of sadness and disappointment.

Sam faltered for a moment, more because of what Dean wasn't saying than what he was. _I need to feel whole, man. I'm still not sure if I'm ever gonna get my arm back, don't take my dignity too. _But when all was said and done, Sam still knew what the safest route was; and it wasn't to give Dean the tough weapons. Not for the first hunt.

Looking to Bobby for backup, Dean was thoroughly disappointed when the older hunter just shrugged his shoulders. The silence said more than words ever could as Dean quickly realized he'd been outnumbered on this topic.

For the next several minutes Dean pouted, making clear his disapproval at being ganged up on. But it also didn't escape his knowledge that he stood no chance against both of them. Especially now when Sam could still out-maneuver him and the two of them would be able to completely disarm a protest.

It wasn't so much as agreement as it was concession when Dean finally swiped the EMF and the glock with his one good hand. The gun was immediately tucked in his waistband for when he needed it as he went for the roll of duct tape stuffed off to the side of the trunk.

Before Sam could react, much less offer to help, Dean had ripped off a long strip of duct tape with his teeth and began taping the EMF reader to the palm of his right hand. There was no doubt he would be needing a spare hand for his gun if the need arose, yet he didn't want to risk dropping the reader either.

Sam crossed his arms, backing off before he had gotten too close, and bit back a grin of approval at Dean's creative thinking. Glancing over at Bobby, Sam could see the man was trying to do the same thing, both of them realizing that the last thing Dean needed was praise for his ingenuity. What Dean needed was to be treated as normally as possible. The closer they could come to pretending there was nothing wrong with Dean, the better off everyone would be.

xxxxxxxxxx

Being demoted to the 'baby toys' as Dean finally pegged them made him grumpy and irritable and far less willing to listen to either Sam or Bobby than he ever was before. Not that he was partial to taking their orders on the best of days, but this made it that much worse.

If Sam said go right, Dean went left. If Bobby said go downstairs, Dean went up. He stubbornly ignored every order shot his way with crossed arms and an obstinate shake of his head. And he was fast headed on a path to destruction.

What was frustrating, especially for Dean, was the fact that Sam and Bobby made perfect sense. Their arguments as to why he should take the glock instead of the sawed-off were sound. He _knew _it would be hard to keep reloading when all he had were two rounds at a time. He _knew _he stood a slim to nil chance of firing accurately with only one good hand. And for that matter, he _knew_ that he would probably wind up flat on his ass – or worse – just from the kick. There was no denying that it would be so much easier to have a small weapon with lots of rounds.

The fact that he had been demoted to the EMF really shouldn't have seemed like a demotion at all; he had _made_ the damn thing for crying out loud. And on a normal hunt it was equal parts him and Sam using the machine – it wasn't like Sam always carried it. Sometimes Dean even demanded he take point, insisting that he was the only one who really knew how to use the reader.

And if he was really honest with himself, he hated the broadsword. It was awkward and not weighted properly. Their father had taken it from some two hundred year old house they were exorcising, claiming it as an appropriate fee for their services. And somehow it had found its way into the trunk of the Impala. Besides, he was really more of a gun man than a hand to hand combat man.

But none of that mattered right now; not when Sam and Bobby seemed to have banded together all of a sudden and decided that they were in charge of him. No way was he going to allow that.

Which, of course, meant that when Sam screamed 'Dean duck!' from halfway across the house, Dean instead stood up and ran smack into the flying hardcover book that their friendly farmhouse ghost had chosen as his first method of attack. So much for ghosts lying dormant during the day.

The weight of the book slamming into the side of his face sent Dean staggering backwards into the old grandfather clock that was leaned against the far wall. His shoulder struck the corner, sending the clock tipping to the side and Dean sliding to the ground right along with it.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, already closing the distance between the two before the clock even started teetering. He reached his brother's side in a cloud of dust and splinters, falling to his knees and gripping Dean's shoulders tightly.

Blinking up at Sam with a dazed expression, lopsided shit-eating grin on his face, Dean tried to push himself back up and immediately fell back against the clock. Sam shifted around, better positioning himself to slide an arm beneath Dean's back as he offered just enough pressure to stabilize him.

"You good? You hurt?" Sam asked. His free hand was already probing at the fast swelling left eye that was going to make one hell of a shiner by the end of the day, but his eyes were scanning over the whole picture, looking for less noticeable damage.

"Yeah," Dean groused, using the support Sam offered to lever himself up before he swatted his brother away. "Dude, get off me. I'm good."

Sam lifted his arms in submission, hands palm out as he backed away. Dean was in a slump, there was no doubt about it. But he had just used his own stubbornness to get himself hurt again, and as much Sam hated to admit it he knew when he was beat.

It didn't seem fair that he had to back down simply to keep his brother safe. It was the classic tale of the immovable object versus the unstoppable force. Something had to give, and this time it was clear that it would be Sam.

Sam stood, backed away with his arms crossed and frustration evident just as he heard Bobby tearing down the stairs from the attic, finally responding to the commotion below him. He came to a screeching halt at the bottom of the stairs as Sam's hand flew into the air in the universal stop symbol.

"He wants to do this his way," Sam said dryly. From somewhere within his brain was screaming to be paying more attention to their surroundings, to remember what it was that had Dean in a pile of old clock in the first place, but right now Sam was more focused on figuring out some way to bring about the return of his brother. His brother pre-stroke.

Bobby nodded, offering his understanding whether he fully agreed with it or not. The older man joined his young friend, his own arms crossed against his chest, as they waited for Dean to make a move.

Balanced in a sit, Dean reached behind him to the window and grabbed hold of the sill with his good hand. He used it as a lever to roll onto his knees and then climb slowly, unsteadily, to his feet.

It wasn't until Dean was standing firmly on his own two feet that the three hunters realized how much less attention they should have paid to Dean's stubborn streak and how much more they should have paid to the farmhouse ghost.


	21. Chapter 21

**Alright, here we are. I'm still plugging away, it's just taking me longer. Thanks for hanging in there. I really want to reply to all your reviews, but felt that it would do nothing but take away the precious time I have to write. Between the two I hoped you would be better rewarded by another chapter. Thank you all so much for the unshakeable loyalty and encouragement, though. i really appreciate it! So, one of my chores is done. I pick up my new Toyota Highlander tomorrow, so the car hunt is over. But I also started an evening Real Estate class, so I've traded one distraction for another. I'm devoted to finishing this story, though. No worries. And I'm actually close to finishing another story, so when that one posts there will be no waiting for me to finish another chapter. And now I think I'm rambling, so I'm gonna shut up and just post the chapter. Enjoy, and thanks again for all the wonderful reviews!**

It was a simple tremble in the walls and the floorboard that first got the notice of the trio of hunters. Dean's renewed steadiness on his feet waned as the scuffed wooden floorboards began to shake, but for once he didn't get frustrated. Sam and Bobby were having just as much trouble staying on their own feet as he was on his.

Reaching back to the windowsill to steady himself, Dean watched as Sam and Bobby both lunged for their own basis of stability, an old café table and a china cabinet respectively. But instead of gaining more stability each found his crutch to falter under the intensity of the tremors.

They continued to grow until individual objects in the room began to join force. The window Dean leaned against started opening and slamming shut repeatedly, causing him to have to roll quickly to the wall before his hand found itself smashed between the frame and sill. Or worse yet, impaled as the glass shattered inside.

Pictures started jumping and pounding on the wall, straining against the wire restraints that kept them held to the nails. The café table that Sam gripped began stomping a rhythm across the floor and Bobby's china cabinet started rattling the precious china displayed within.

Suddenly, the dusty antique rug Sam was standing on went flying, jerking out from underneath his feet and causing his body to soar in the opposite direction. The table went with him, landing on its side just seconds before Sam landed in the same spot, the back of his head clipping the smooth edge of the table before he landed gracelessly in a heap within the legs of the table.

"Sssam!" Dean screamed, a direct role reversal from minutes before as he let go of his tenuous hold on the wall to stumble across the room to his brother's side. Once a protector, always a protector.

Bobby moved in at the same time, dropping to his knees at Sam's side before Dean got there, but he was quickly shoved out of the way by the frantic reactions of the older Winchester. He fell back, landing in a hard sit, but immediately found a new purpose as he realized no one was covering their asses.

Drawing his shotgun once again, Bobby scrambled to his feet and began a circular sweep of the still rattling room. Everything was shaking and trembling, but there were no ghosts to remove from the equation and he wasn't entirely sure what to do next.

At his back, Bobby could hear the soft murmurs coming from Dean as he patted his brother's cheek in a desperate attempt to rouse him. And from the quickly increasing tone, it was clear the attempt wasn't effective.

"Dean, how's he doing?" Bobby asked, glancing over his shoulder quickly, but then immediately going back to his scan of the room. It was hard to stay on his feet as the floorboards continued to quake underneath. He could feel himself losing his balance, but knew that wasn't an option right now. He needed to find the McCoy ghosts and can their transparent bodies before they could do any more damage.

"No blood, but-t he'ss not-t waking up."

"He got a knot?"

Dean squinted at the back or his brother's head through his unswollen eye, feeling for a bump at the same time. "Big and ssstill ssswelling."

Bobby winced, but didn't dwell. "Well get 'im comfortable and then get your butt moving. We've got to figure out where the bodies are buried or Sam won't be the only one on the ground.

It was enough to get Dean moving. For the first time since the stroke Dean heard the sounds of being treated as an equal. Bobby needed his help, wasn't just playing along to appease the cripple but rather really and truly _needed_ his help. Sam was down for the count and there were two ghosts in this house that wanted nothing more than to see the other two hunters join him.

He lacked the strength the haul Sam across the room to someplace safer, if there was such a place, so he tried to make his brother as comfortable as possible within the confines of the ornate table legs. With nothing more he could do for Sam, Dean dragged himself to his feet to join Bobby in the search.

The tremors seemed to have died down some, as though the spirits were waiting to see what the hunters' next move would be. Bobby had secured their current location, establishing there to be no trap doors or hidden passages anywhere within. For the moment that meant Sam would be reasonably safe as they went about searching the rest of the house. Not that they could say the same for themselves.

"I've got a feeling they're hidden somewhere upstairs. I think I might have noticed something while I was up there, but I didn't get a close enough look before McCoy decided to launch his attack," Bobby said, already climbing the dusty wooden flight to the next floor. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling and between the railing slats on the banister, stretching towards the hunters as they ascended to the next floor.

"What did you ssee?" Dean asked, slowly following the older hunter, struggling to keep up.

"I'm not sure. But if I was a bettin' man I'd say the house looked bigger from the outside than it shows from within. Seems like there might be more to the back of the house than the walls indicate."

"What roomsss're back there?"

"Master bedroom and a bathroom. Think there was an entrance to the attic, too."

"You thinkin the at-tic?"

Bobby nodded as he reached the top of the stairs. He disappeared from view before Dean could ask any more questions, taking advantage of his faster approach to search for a sign of the spirits.

It was calm. Too eerily calm for either hunter's liking, and as Dean crested the stairs he and Bobby exchanged an ominous glance. Chills ran up Dean's spine, his senses on high alert as he glanced down at the EMF still taped securely to his palm. It was quiet, but it just didn't seem right.

Gun still clenched in his left hand, Dean prodded at the EMF reader, prying his numb hand away from his stomach and closer to his line of sight so he could study the equipment better. He winced when he realized the reason for the silence, flipping the switch to the on position. Somehow the switch must have gotten switched off in the chaos of the attack.

The reader sprung to life immediately, shrieking and blaring for all it was worth just as he looked up to see a dresser sail smoothly over the wooden floor straight for Bobby.

"Bobby! Move!" Dean yelled.

He breathed a sigh of relief watching the older hunter turn and sidestep the dresser just before it could slam right into his gut. Instead the solid Oak dresser crashed deafeningly into the opposite wall, splintering into a million tiny pieces.

"God, Dean, that was close," Bobby breathed. "Thanks, dude."

Dean nodded, inching his way further into the hallway and peering through the doorframe from where the dresser had come sailing through. Once again the hallway was quiet. Eerily so. But it wasn't much longer before the EMF started up again.

It was just a few slow beeps at first, just enough to put the two hunters on edge, cause them to go spinning through the entire hall in search of a sign of the ghost.

McCoy kept himself well hidden, working on his stealth mode and waiting until just the right minute to appear. Waiting until its position was well and truly threatened before appearing. This was a smart ghost. It planned and schemed, was clearly aware of how to survive. This would not be a fight easily won.

The two hunter's split up in their search of the hall, each taking a side and carefully scanning the interior rooms for any sign of hidden rooms before finally meeting up at the entrance to the attic. As they had approached the beeping from the EMF reader got increasingly stronger, faster, until culminating in a shrill whine at the mouth of the attic.

The walls began to quiver again, the door rattling on its hinges before Bobby could grab the doorknob. He looked at Dean, a sense of apprehension in his posture as it became abundantly clear that the two hunters were getting close.

A silent conversation passed between the two of them. _You ready?_

_As I'll ever be._

_On three. _Bobby held his hand at his side, slowly extending a finger at a time until he had three out, and then he gripped the doorknob. The antique brass turned easily in his hand considering the age of the hinges, and the door came open with a loud creak and a whoosh of air. All around them the building seemed to come to life, the shaking escalating to something of a hurricane force wind.

Looking to Dean, it seemed clear he was struggling to stay on his feet against the gales that enveloped them, and it wasn't much easier for Bobby. Dust and debris flew everywhere, irritating their eyes and suffocating their lungs. But the two hunters persevered, determined to put an end to this before things came to a devastating end.

Squinting through tearing eyes, Dean tried desperately to see within the entrance to the attic, searching for the trap door they knew was hidden somewhere within. Immediately behind the door was a flight of narrow stairs, enclosed on either side by rough Oak siding, but from what he could see the walls were solid. No sign of a hidden door.

There was no railing up the flight of stairs, and they weren't only narrow in width, but in depth also. It reminded Dean of his and Sam's first night at the cabin, trying to master the treacherous, crumbling steps to the front door. He was so much better now, but with the strength of the wind rushing down on him he might as well be right back in that night, reliving the torment all over again.

"You alright, kid?" Bobby shouted through the whistling breeze. He let go of the door and it whipped around on its hinges, slamming into the wall in the hallway and staying put. His ball cap was threatening to fly off, and he had one hand on top of his head trying to keep it put. Their weapons were useless right now as there was no visible sign of the ghost. Shooting into the wind would do nothing but waste a bullet.

Dean blinked at the sound of Bobby's voice carrying past his ear, only realizing that he had somehow ended up lost in thought when the sound jolted him out of his reverie. It took him another minute to register the words the older hunter had spoken, the question he had asked, the fact that he expected Dean to move.

"Yeah, sorry. I'm good." He moved forward, fighting his way through the wind and up the stairs, winning the battle over climbing the flight but still struggling. Even if he had wanted to he feared he would never get his gun into the air. And that was the good arm.

The numb arm was being forced into his gut, no fight against the pressure of air coming at him from all directions. It was all Dean could do to keep the arm stabile against his stomach, fear that it might rip right out of the arm socket if he lost that edge.

From behind him, Dean could feel the push of Bobby's hands against his back, and he fought against the feeling that it was meant to help propel him forward, to not let him fall back down the stairs. _He just wants me to know where he is, _Dean chided himself as he continued to push forward. _It's got nothing to do with his thoughts on my capabilities. _

They reached the top of the stairs by what seemed like sheer chance, and yet the frenzy only seemed to worsen as McCoy's ghost realized they had managed to make it as far as they had.

The attic was home to a macrabe collection of ancient artifacts, many of which told stories back to the turn of the 20th century. From the little bit the hunters were able to take in before McCoy intensified his attack to Hiroshima proportions there was plenty to cause physical damage.

An antique sewing machine sat in its original desk in the far corner, the iron foot pedal collecting dust by the pound. Along one crumbling brick wall, a chimney jutting through the house, was a clothing rack stuffed full of old ball gowns and tuxedos. A shelf stacked high with hat boxes was just above the clothes.

In another corner was a collection of children's toys; a wooden rocking horse painted in muted reds and blues, a box full of ABC blocks in colors to match the horse. A stack of moldering jigsaw puzzle boxes, matching Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls with cloth so threadbare it tore in places, and a tattered teddy bear missing an eye.

Another spot on the floor held claim to an old wooden cabinet on top of which was a tapestry bag. Several skeins of yarn and a collection of knitting needles peeked out over the top. A pair of large sewing scissors rested on a corner of the cabinet, beside the bag.

A third corner housed an old wooded crate of candle sticks, silver and gold and pewter. Glass sconces sat in a second box. And beside them were stacked several antique mirrors.

There was enough in the attic to massacre a small army if used correctly, and McCoy was determined to make use of every advantage afforded him.

With barely enough opportunity to think, Dean and Bobby found themselves in a whirlwind of flying antiques.

The ghost started small, sending the stuffed toys and clothes their way. But it was more of a hindrance than a danger. The clothes got in their way, creating difficulty seeing, a tangled web causing obstruction from their view and their mobility. Yet it was almost effortless to escape the first obstacle.

And that's when McCoy brought out the big guns. It seemed the farther the two hunter's moved into the warm attic the more frantic the ghost became and he started sending out larger objects.

Dean deflected one of the hat boxes with his good arm, stepping to the side and raising his arm just enough to simply be grazed on the shoulder by the solid cylinder rather than it smacking him in the face.

At the same moment, Bobby found himself the unwitting recipient of a box of wooden boxes dumping over his head. He brought his arms up to protect his head, hunching over as the fifty or so pine cubes rained down over top of him. When the attack was over he rose to his full stature sporting several new knots on the back of his head and neck and a fancy new shiner around his left eye having been just a half second too late to protect his face.

"Damn, Bobby, you okay?"

Bobby's expression was the only response he afforded Dean. The older hunter appeared more pissed than he did wounded and it gave Dean hope. This was going to end and it was going to end now.

They banded together, forging ahead side by side as the rocking horse sailed across the floor, making a valiant attempt to unseat the two hunters. But they managed to sidestep it just in time. Halfway across the floor they could finally make out the faint outline of a crack in the wall, just behind the collection of toys. It might be nothing, maybe just a failing plaster job. Or it might be the break they were looking for.

"You see what I see?" Bobby whispered, his lips barely moving.

Dean gave an almost imperceptible nod and gripped his gun tighter. In the other hand he could still hear the EMF shrieking away, unwilling to quiet while there was still supernatural activity around it.

They moved closer still, barely missing a pewter candlestick as is sailed over their heads, and Dean couldn't help as his mind wandered to some inane reference to a Clue gameboard and Old McCoy in the attic with the candlestick.

He still couldn't shake the desire for his arm to miraculously spring to life so that he had both access to a gun and access to a shield. One arm acting as both trigger and deflector was one arm too few. But nothing seemed to be working, he was still working his way through this gauntlet of an attic as the One Armed Bandit.

More Candlesticks flew their way, striking them in the back and the legs, before they finally made it to the other side of the attic where the crack more clearly became the outline of some type of door. This was it. But the next step was how to get through.

McCoy stepped up his attack again, sending the rocking horse across the floor again as he launched a series of the glass sconces toward them. This time Bobby went down by way of the horse as it slammed full force into the back of his knees.

Distracted by Bobby's downfall, Dean missed the presence of the three sconces heading his way and turned toward Bobby just in time to receive a blow from the clear globe in the back of his head instead of the temple.

He saw stars, but stayed steady on his feet as the glass shattered, not unaware that a temple shot as had been intended would have felled him too.

"You hurt?" Dean asked, only glancing down to the older man from the corner of his eye after realizing he had to get the passageway open. Dwelling on their injuries would only allow for more to occur.

"I'm good." Bobby said, waving Dean on. He was considering the same conclusion, and he was hardly hurt enough to ignore that. "Just had the wind knocked out of me. Can you get it open?"

Dean was already feeling along the outer edges, putting pressure on the most vulnerable spots. Something had to trigger the opening. He just had to find it. "I hope ssso. Jusst t-trying t-to find the t-trigger."

Bobby finally caught his breath enough to scramble to his knees as he dodged a musty book that sailed his way. "It's gotta be there, Dean. Look harder. This thing isn't going to give up." He did a quick scan of the room, still trying to spot a sign of the ghost itself rather than just its handiwork, but when he still spotted nothing Bobby returned his attention to helping Dean find a way in.


	22. Chapter 22

**_Here's another installment; another short one, but I'm struggling to find time to write. Hopefully it will suffice for the time being. Thanks again for sticking with me. I really appreciate it! You all rock. _**

It was Bobby who finally found the trigger, hidden underneath a loose floorboard several inches away from the far seam of the trapdoor. Finding it was truly a stroke of genius, or maybe dumb luck. Either way, they found it and the door slowly began to swing open, creaking and groaning in protest after being sealed up for more than half a century.

Around them the contents of the room seemed to slow down as the opening in the wall widened, seemingly as though old McCoy was finally giving up. They allowed themselves to breathe a sigh of relief, sitting back on their haunches as they regained their bearings. Rest would come later, but it certainly didn't hurt to take a bit of a breather.

The two hunters shared a look before finally going in, silently deliberating on who would enter first, debating on what they would find behind the door. Without saying a word it was decided that Dean would go in first - the natural order of things in Dean's opinion. He would never admit it, but it thrilled him to finally be taken seriously again, to be allowed to carry on with what he was raised to do without someone constantly second guessing him.

It was still frustrating to deal with his arm, the fact that he hadn't yet gained anything back never far from his mind. But he was quickly learning to adapt to the challenge and it was getting easier and easier to push it to the back of his thoughts rather than the foreground.

His confidence was back tenfold, so it was with head held high and ears on alert that Dean pushed through the trap door, gun at the ready. But he barely made it past the threshold before his gun hand was drawn to his mouth as a small cry of disgust came from his mouth at the sight that confronted him. Behind him, Bobby reacted much the same way, but pushed Dean the rest of the way into the room. Like it or not, this was the job they had come for.

The room was mostly bare save for the vast covering of spiderwebs over every inch of the ceiling and walls. In the far corner was a bed, and beside that a rocking chair. It was on those two pieces of furniture that Dean and Bobby finally spotted the greyed skeletons of McCoy and his young bride.

Though the meat and flesh was gone, their hair still remained delicately around their scalps, ready to fall away at a gentle breeze. That hair was the easiest way to tell the difference between the man and the woman, although Dean had had enough experience with skeletons that he probably could have told the difference between the two even if there hadn't been any defining hair.

The female lay flat out on the bed, head resting against an old, stained pillow, while McCoy sat in the chair beside her. He was bent over his wife's body, bony skeletal arms stretched across what was once her stomach, an old revolver laying at his fingertips. But what was most curious was the fact that her arms were wrapped around her husbands head and shoulders, almost protectively.

Dean looked at Bobby and cocked an eyebrow. _You seeing what I'm seeing?_

"You don't suppose the little lady was still alive when he brought her up here, do you?"

"Sure looksss that-t way. How elssse could she have been embracing him the way she is?" Dean crossed the room to more closely inspect the two skeletons, figure out how such an entanglement of limbs fit with the story they had been told.

"Doesn't look to me like someone afraid of her husband."

Slowly lowering himself down beside the bed, Dean squinted as he more carefully inspected the entwined limbs. He shrugged his agreement with Bobby's comment and leaned in closer. There was something there. Something just wasn't adding up.

And then the trap door swung shut with a resounding crack, trapping them inside the hidden room as the air began to swirl once again.

The room was far too quiet, the air too still, as Sam began to stir from his unwanted slumber. He blinked a couple of times, bringing a hand up to rub at his throbbing skull before finally attempting to draw the room into focus. It was slow going as he fought against the herd of elephants threatening to burst through his weakened head. The room continued to spin, colors dancing and swirling in front of his vision.

"Dean," he called out weakly, trying to sit up and failing on the first attempt. "Dean? Bobby?"

When no reply came, Sam forced himself to lay still long enough for the room to stop spinning and the pounding in his head to die down to a dull throb before attempting to sit up again. That last thing Sam could remember was the frenzied tornado that Old McCoy's ghost had managed to conjure up, and in his mind he was convinced that the lack of response he was getting was due to his brother's own inability to answer. Yet Sam knew he would be no good to anyone if he couldn't even balance.

Finally sitting up, Sam looked around the room. He suppressed a gasp at the damage that had been done to the room. All around him were books and trinkets strewn all over the floor. Broken glass lay threateningly amidst the chaos. Large items of furniture - the bookshelf, the desk chair, a small end table - lay on their sides, cracked and splintered. But through it all, one thing was blatantly obvious. Dean was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Bobby.

Taking a deep breath, Sam reached for the lip of the café table above him and hoisted himself to his feet. He had to stop, steady himself against a wave of nausea, before he could go on and it was another several minutes and staggered footfalls before he was even able to find voice enough to call out again.

"Dean." Sam came to the bottom of the stairway and grasped onto the banister, taking more time to steady himself in the spinning room. Amidst the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, Sam could see the two sets of footprints leading their way up the dusty steps. He groaned inwardly, realizing he was going to have to climb the steep stairwell if he intended to find his brother or Bobby.

_Damn ghost couldn't have made it easy on me and died on the ground floor,_ he groused to himself. This was so frustrating, and suddenly he knew what it was like for Dean to feel so weak and unsteady on his feet. It was all he could do to remain standing and the idea of actually changing altitude was enough to make his stomach churn violently.

"Dean, where are you?" Sam called out weakly. He lugged one heavy foot up a step and followed with the other before stopping for a breather. And then finally took another step, and a breather. And another. _At this rate I won't get there until the sun goes down, _Sam thought grimly, but continued to persevere up the stairs.

After more than five minutes of aggravatingly slow progress Sam finally made it to the second floor, collapsing against a wall the minute he found himself on level ground. He looked around the open hallway, taking in the destruction that had befallen the surroundings. It wasn't nearly as bad as is had been on the first floor, although quite possibly only better because of the noticeable lack of anything to destroy. Clothing was strewn about on the floor and the few furniture items. A dresser was splintered against the wall, and a wrought iron four poster bed was slammed mightily against a doorframe, begging to break free of its hold. But all in all there seemed to be less permanent damage.

However the floor also still seemed to be lacking the two elusive hunters that Sam so desperately sought. His gut told him he had to keep looking, that maybe they were in trouble and needed his help.

It was pure adrenaline that had Sam crawling to his feet once again and making his way unsteadily along the expanse of the hallway in search of where his brother might have gone. None of the rooms seemed to offer much hope, yet he knew both hunters were still somewhere in the house. The question was where.

On Sam's second trip around the hall, as panic began to overtake him in a desperate sensation of dread, he finally heard the sharp slamming of a door.

That woke him up, alerted him more. He knew without doubt that he would find his brother nearby the sound of the slam, yet he could also feel the knot form in his throat as he realized it was still distant. Somewhere above him.

Adrenaline was all that was keeping Sam on his feet, and that was quickly waning as his pounding, spinning head vied for attention. But that would have to wait; he had more important things to worry about now as stumbled his way to the only lead he hadn't followed up on.

Dean jumped at the sound of the door slamming shut behind them, immediately abandoning his search of the entwined bodies to share a glance of dread with his older counterpart. "That-t'sss not good," he offered unnecessarily.

Bobby shook his head in agreement and dropped to his knees beside the thin seam that defined the door. His rough fingers scraped at the edge, failing to gain a purchase, as he felt the unnatural wind kick up in the room. "We gotta burn their bodies, Dean!"

"We'll sssuffocate in here if we can't find a way back out," Dean shot back, scrambling to Bobby's side as he, too, worked to find a handhold that might reopen the door for them.

"Well McCoy's gonna kill us anyway if we don't do something."

The floorboards began to shake once again, and the two hunters could feel themselves vibrating across the old wooden floor, sliding farther and farther away from the door with each tremor of the ground.

Suddenly a cry rang out in the air, the sound of a female in agony, and the hairs on the back of Dean's neck rose straight up. "You think that-t's what it sssounded like when he killed her?"

"I don't know, Dean," Bobby shouted back, having a difficult time being heard over the braying in the wind. "And quite frankly I don't care. I just want to burn their bones and get the hell out of here. Now help me find a way to get that damn door opened."

Nodding his agreement, Dean worked beside Bobby to inch his way back along the floorboards, back to the trapdoor. "I think we've done this before," Dean chuckled with a wry smile, reverting back to humor to make it through the tense situation.

A sideways glance was all the older man offered him before resuming his search of the floorboards for a catch. Dean worked on the other side, working the same search. Around them, McCoy picked up his intensity, flinging the few items in the room at his unwanted visitors.

An antique candle holder flew at them from the small table beside the bed, striking Dean on the shoulder and knocking him off balance. He fell against the wall and rolled against it as the table itself was ripped from the floor and came flying at the two hunters.

Bobby's back was still turned, bent over the floorboards in a frantic search. He didn't see the table come flying towards them, had no time to jump out of the way. Dean opened his mouth to call out, but realized it would be too late. His only option was to make the move himself.

"Get down," Dean cried as he launched himself from the wall to where Bobby crouched, sprawling himself overtop of the older man just as the table crashed into the wall above them, barely clipping the man on the head.

As they lay there, Dean watched in slow motion as the trap door suddenly sprang back to life, creaking open from pressure on the still unseen trigger. But as quickly as it started to open it began to close again, the wind forcing it back to its natural position.

Dean's immediate reaction was to reach out a hand to slow the process, and it was only after he got no response that he realized his only available hand was his right hand. It lay limply across the floor, stretched helplessly toward the door while the left one lay pinned beneath Bobby's muscular chest.

_Damn hand!_ Dean screamed internally. _Damn lazy, no good excuse for an arm_. But he really had no choice. It was either open the door or risk dying here in this miserable excuse for a room that was already inhabited by one too many ghosts.

He put mind over matter, working with the same intensity he had generated as a scared four year old boy trying to get his precious six month old cargo out of a burning building. Energy poured from within him, searing outwards towards the tips of his fingers as he finally managed to elicit a tiny response from his fingers, just enough to make the hand crawl forward and slide in between the fast closing gap between the door and the frame.

If he had had any feeling in that hand he knew he would have been cussing as the door slammed shut on his fingers, but for once Dean thanked the fact that his hand remained numb despite his minor victory of motion. Nonetheless, he knew he had to get his hand out of the crushing position and protect it before things became worse for him than they already were, and he quickly rolled off of Bobby and started scanning the room for something to take the place of his hand as a door stop.

"You alright?" they both asked at the same time, Bobby brushing himself off as Dean stretched to reach a piece of the now splintered table.

Bobby nodded his reply, knowing Dean wouldn't accept a formal thank you. His eyes fell to the younger hunter's plight, immediately skipping over the fact that Dean needed to remove his hand from the crack in the doorway and going directly to the simple fact that he had moved it all. His eyes lit up, suddenly forgetting about the ghost and the skeletons.

"Your hand, Dean. You - you moved it. You did it!"

Dean nodded, distracted. "Bobby, I need–"

"That's awesome, Dean. Sam's gonna be so ecstatic." The older hunter climbed to his feet before reaching a hand out to the young Winchester, offering a hand up.

"The door, Bobby," Dean said, frustration evident in his voice. He wanted nothing more than to revel in his victory, but they had a door to prop open and a ghost to destroy. It wasn't fair that Bobby got to ignore the intensity that surrounded them when Dean couldn't.

Bobby blinked at Dean's tone, finally coming back to his senses. "The door," he repeated flatly, at first missing the insinuation and then finally his eyes lit up at in understanding. "The door!"

He scrambled back to the ground, going for the same piece of wood that Dean's fingertips were just barely skimming, and shoved the block closer. "How the hell did that get back open?"

Dean shrugged. "Don't really know. We must have landed on the trigger when I pushed you out of the way of that flying table. But McCoy is determined not to let it stay open."

Sure enough, as Dean slid the block of wood in the crack that was held open only by his bruised fingers McCoy kicked up the wind tunnel again, clearly trying to knock the wood from its secure place between the door and the doorframe.

"Guess we've got to get a move on then." Once again Bobby offered Dean a hand up, and this time the young hunter accepted. With the door now open there was nothing standing in their way of salting and burning the bones of old McCoy and then getting themselves out of there. "You got the matches?"

Dean nodded, holding the gun between his side and arm before reaching into his pocket and grabbing the book of matches from within. A tin of lighter fluid came with it and he held both up victoriously as he pushed his way toward the two bodies through the blast of air. "You got-t the sssalt?"

Bobby mimed Dean's actions, raising the canister of salt in the air as he crossed the room to where the skeletons lay. Both stopping just inches from the bodies, the two men prepared to salt the bodies.

And that's when they realized they had been hunting the wrong ghost all this time.


	23. Chapter 23

**_Alright, here we go. It's late. I know. All I can say is that I have learned my lesson about trying to keep up with a WIP. From now on I'm finishing my stories before I post them. But that doesn't help me here - so I'm gonna keep chugging along until I get it done. Promise. And we're winding down now (I'm thinking two, maybe three more chapters to go.) Thanks for sticking with me. Here we go - enjoy._**

It wasn't anything tangible that led the two hunters to the realization that they were hunting the wrong ghost. As a matter of fact, it wasn't a fact at all. No, their realization came from the sole concept of hunter's intuition and a whole load of experience between the two of them.

It was even possible that they were still wrong, but it was highly unlikely.

Climbing slowly to their feet, staggering and swaying in the gale force winds that continued to swirl around them, Bobby and Dean made their way over to the edge of the bed and caught their first good look at the twisted bundle of skeletons. They could more easily make out the image of the lady of the house with her arms wrapped around her husbands head, but it suddenly became more clear as to why; why she was hugging him when she should have been fighting him off, and why it appeared as though he might have killed himself before she had succumbed to death herself.

Hidden underneath what remained of the corpse of Old Man McCoy was another set of bones, a much smaller set. A baby.

Upon closer inspection still, the two hunters could make out the faded stain in the center of the bed, just underneath the lady's hips. Another stain of the same color spread out from beneath McCoy's skull. Both spots were brown now, but had obviously faded from a darker color at one time – probably red. Probably blood.

Putting two and two together, the hunter's finally came to four as a cloud of understanding struck. Suddenly they knew why there had been so much blood throughout the rest of the house and why a seemingly happy couple had suddenly appeared to end up on the wrong end of the husband's gun. It all made sense now.

Images played through Dean's over-active imagination in a black and white picture show, piecing themselves together to form a visual of what had happened. He conveyed his thoughts to Bobby, who seemed to continuously nod his head at Dean's speculation, indicating that he believed what Dean said to be true as well.

There had never been a clear account from previous tenants to the house as to what the 'ghostly images' played out for them. And it didn't help that the ghost seemed to have changed its tune the minute the hunter's stepped foot into the house, almost as though it knew its very existence was being threatened.

When other's had recounted the haunting's there had been only remembrances of moaning and screaming, the sound of someone falling or of something being dropped, and finally a gunshot.

What was clearly not understood was the fact that the moaning and screaming was the sound of a woman in labor, a horrendous labor that seemingly started on the first floor of the house before someone carried her upstairs. It was the best explanation they had for the blood found throughout the house years ago when the bodies were first discovered missing.

They could only assume that at some point the baby was delivered stillborn, and the intensity of the labor had wreaked havoc on Lady McCoy's body to the point that she was dying too. In his grief, Old man McCoy put a gun to his head and killed himself, falling prone over top of his baby and his dying wife's bedside. The woman must have cradled her husband with her frail hands, mourning the loss of the child and man as she continued to lose her own fight with life.

Yet he had taken them to a secret room, why Dean didn't know, but that mere fact kept the three of them locked away from the outside world and kept the secret entombed. Until now.

It was not a rare occurrence back then for a woman to lose her baby, nor was it rare for a woman to die during childbirth. But it wasn't often that the dying woman watched her husband take his own life before she lost her own. Lady McCoy had not only seen her child die, but then minutes later she saw her husband kill himself. It could only be assumed that the grief of those two losses had procured a sense of guilt within the young woman's soul that followed her into her death and beyond. _She_ had become the lost soul, the mournful, violent ghost that haunted the old farmhouse.

And Dean was about to put her to rest.

Although they were now certain it was the lady of the house that had wreaked so much terror and havoc, they weren't about to take any chances. He waited as Bobby opened the canister of kerosene and doused the three skeletons in the flammable fluid before stepping in to add his own layer of salt.

The wind picked up even more, scattering the salt throughout the room and only keeping a fine dusting on top of the bones, held in place only by the moisture of the kerosene. It was all either one could do to stay upright, yet there was nothing more the ghost could fling at them and she didn't seem to be willing to disturb her family.

Knowing they were safe for the most part made it slightly easier to continue without fear of being filleted while their backs were turned, and Dean relaxed a bit. He went for the matchbook in his pocket and pulled it out, flipping up the lid before he realized he still stood no chance of getting a match lit in his current state.

Suddenly, the victory from just a few minutes earlier didn't seem like such a success. He stared down at his right hand, at the fingers still stubbornly refusing to do much more than twitch despite their valiant effort with the door. It was better than before, but certainly not what Dean needed right now.

Growling under his breath, Dean shoved the book of matches at Bobby. He'd been ready to throw them, but who knew where they would end up with the wind blowing the way it was. And now was not the time to overreact out of frustration; that would just have to wait until their lives were no longer being threatened.

Dean watched and waited as Bobby accepted the book of matches from him, pulled one from within, and lit it. Only to have the darn thing blow out immediately from the force of the wind surrounding them.

Undeterred, the older hunter threw that stick to the ground and selected another match. Only to have it, too, extinguished before a flame could catch.

Three more matches were tried as Dean watched, an odd mixture of frustration at the situation and smugness at Bobby's equal inability to get a match lit swirling through his mind. He couldn't help but feel the self-satisfaction that, for once, his own injury was no more a hindering cause in trying to hunt the ghost. He wouldn't have had any better luck if he was operating with two good hands.

An idea sparked as Dean watched their supply of matches dwindle and he was immediately at Bobby's side, closing in on him and embracing the man with his good arm as he pushed him closer to the wall at the head of the bed. Their new found configuration formed a triangle of shelter blocking the wind from obliterating their flame. The result was a nice, healthy glow of orange which Bobby quickly tossed into the mass of hair that once flowed from the lady's head.

They could only hold their breath and wait, hoping that it would catch quickly enough to spread. And for once luck was with them as the flame took hold of the hair and the pillow it lay upon. The intensity of the wind began to die down as the fire began to consume its creator, but not before it pushed the flame further over the bed, spreading it like wildfire.

A piercing shriek lanced out in the air as the ghost of Lady McCoy fought the inevitable, railing against her own part in the quick spread of flames over her own skeleton and those of her husband and child.

The sound sent a shiver down Dean's spine, and he visibly shook it off before he looked to Bobby, silent eyes declaring that their work was done and they needed to get out before the house went up with them inside.

Bobby nodded, walking forward and pushing Dean along with him. They headed to the trap door, relieved to see their makeshift doorstop had held. The wind continued to die down as the crossed the room, coming to a final stop just before the hunter's reached to door. And that was it; the hunt was over. Another spirit put to rest.

Minutes earlier, Sam had finally made it to the top of the attic steps. His diplopia only seemed to be getting worse the longer he was on his feet, but he wasn't about to let a little double vision stop him from reaching his brother. Yet standing at the crest of the stairs, Sam discovered that the attic had different plans for him.

The mess in the room fiercely rivaled that of the second and first floors. Sam was hard pressed to find a clear path anywhere within the room, nor could he see any safe handholds to assist in keeping his faltering body upright. Add to that the fact that he couldn't see where Dean might be within the room and he discovered that he was truly screwed.

Somewhere within his muddled head, Sam could make out a faint whirring sound and the echo of voices, but those sounds vied for space with the incessant buzzing that had insisted on taking up residency the minute he'd woken up on the first floor. Something told him the voices belonged to Bobby and Dean, but he couldn't push through the fog long enough to make out what they were saying or where they were coming from.

Yet Sam knew old houses; had spent time in more than he cared to count. And he knew that old houses could be deceiving. They were full of secret passageways and tunnels, and he knew without a doubt that there was no where Dean could be other than this floor.

Making up his mind, Sam finally released his tenuous hold on the banister and lurched forward through the clearest path he cold find. He managed to shuffle five steps before coming to an abrupt halt in front of an antique candle stick in his way, sickened by the fact that such a small object provided such an obstacle for him. He hated the idea of lifting a foot from floor, fearful that he lacked the strength to stand on just one leg. Yet the idea of kicking it aside or shuffling through it evoked fear of getting his feet tangled within.

Sam was already nearly on the verge of collapse, a combination of swirling vision and nausea from the concussion threatening to drop him like a sack of potatoes. His feet felt leaden and uncooperative, hands tingling. Nothing wanted to work the way he needed it too. But all he could think of was that Dean had been living with a similar affliction - worse even - day in and day out for weeks and he hadn't given in to it. If Dean could persevere then so could Sam.

He struck out again, ever so slowly sliding his foot into the path of the candlestick and pushing it out of his way. It moved easily, as he had expected, but the shift in balance still had the undesired effect he had dreaded and Sam soon found himself on his hands and knees, panting for breath and fighting vertigo.

"Dean?" He cried out in a pitifully soft whimper. Around him the whirring was getting louder, breaking into a dull roar, yet he knew it wasn't inside his head. Whatever it was was most certainly coming from somewhere within the room.

And then he saw it. A glimpse to his left and for a minute he just thought his mind was playing tricks on him. Had the wall just moved?

Crawling on elbows and knees, Sam inched himself closer to what he had seen, squinting in his struggle to make the room stop spinning and bring the two identically swirling images into one still frame. But regardless of his hazy sight, Sam was certain that what he was seeing was real. The wall had steadily creaked open a couple of inches and the roaring sound seemed to increase.

Just as quickly as the trap door opened, though, Sam watched it begin to close again. And then he saw a hand snake out at the base of the frame, catching it before it slammed shut. It was then that he realized his mind _must _be playing tricks on him, because Sam was certain that the hand he'd just seen was Dean's. Dean's _right _hand.

He shook his head in an effort to clear his vision, and then instantly regretted it as the images worsened instead. Immediately, Sam found he could no longer keep himself even on all fours and his arms collapsed beneath him as the blackness consumed him once again.

Taking a deep breath, Dean emerged from the hidden room relieved and finally relaxed. It had been a harrowing hour - _had it really only been an hour?_ - and he was ready to head home. Smoke trailed out of the room behind them, but otherwise the hunt was already forgotten. Another notch on his belt of thousands. And with the newfound movement in his had Dean was eager to get back to his therapy efforts; to finalize his healing process.

His eyes widened as he finally was able to appreciate the mess Lady McCoy had created in her fervor to keep the hunters away from her and her family. Dean sucked in a breath, and felt Bobby's hand on his shoulder indicating the older hunter's notice of the state of the room as well. He scanned the surrounding area, and his eyes soon fell to his collapsed baby brother.

"Sssammy," Dean cried, fisting Bobby's shirt and pulling the man behind him as he scrambled through the mess to the youngest Winchester's side. "Sssam. It'ss okay. I'm here."

Bobby knelt to the floor opposite Dean and gently turned Sam to his back, situating him in Dean's lap, head resting against his older brother's knee. Sam immediately began to stir, blinking groggy eyes up at the two men hovering over him. He groaned, hands flopping limply at his side as he tried in vain to raise them to his face.

"Hey bro, it'sss okay. I've got-t-cha."

Looking up, Sam's eyes found Dean and he smiled at his brother's assurances. "You okay?" he asked in response. "He gone?"

Dean nodded, stroking Sam's hair. "Yeah, man. I'm fine. And the ghossst isss gone. 'Cept it-t wasssn't Old Man McCoy; it wasss the wife."

Sam's eyes widened for a second and then closed again as he huffed his response. "Figures. How'd you come up with that?"

Dean shrugged. "Not import-tant. I'll t-tell you lat-ter. Right now we need t-t-to get you out-t of here."

Biting his lip in contemplation, Sam prepared himself to be moved and then nodded his head. "Yeah. Let's go."

Bobby stood quickly before bending down to offer his assistance, and together he and Dean managed to get Sam to his feet. The trio stumbled for a minute, slow to gain their footing, but soon they were moving steadily down the stairs. Sam's added height made it slightly more difficult to keep him on his feet and moving in sync with the older hunters. He tripped over his own feet, causing Dean and Bobby to lurch forward as the weight distribution shifted. But somehow they managed to stay the course, and soon they were leaving the house behind and making quick work of the trek to the car.

As Dean eased Sam into the backseat of the car he could see the smoke billowing from the back of the house. He grimaced, sad to see a house with such history burn to the ground. Pulling his phone from his pocket Dean dialed 911 as he circled the car to the driver's seat, the understanding remaining unspoken that he was ready to drive home. Bobby climbed into the passenger seat as Dean spun a lie to the operator about how they had been driving past the house and noticed smoke coming from the backside. And then they drove off.

No one spoke on the drive home with the exception of Dean asking a random 'You okay back there, Sammy?' To which Sam would grunt a reply just loud enough to satisfy his overprotective big brother that everything was fine.

Arriving at home exhaustion won out over everything else and the three hunter's collapsed as soon as they made it through the door, Bobby taking the couch downstairs and Dean and Sam each taking a bed upstairs. It wasn't until the next morning when they all crowded into the kitchen for some breakfast, Sam still a little groggy but far less disoriented, that the youngest hunter calls Dean on what he thinks he saw the day before.

"You moved your hand yesterday." It was matter-of-fact, a statement. Yet Sam still stared at Dean with those imploring 'no one can say no to me' eyes that beg for Dean to affirm what he already knew to be true.

Dean's head raised so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. He tried to hide the smirk on his face behind the incredulity that Sam, despite his massive head injury and near unconsciousness, had been able to make out enough of the scene to put two and two together. He glanced over at Bobby, shared a private smile, and nodded his head.

"Yeah. Yeah, Sssam, I did." Trying to play it cool and failing miserable, Dean's mouth quickly broke into a grin that could light up the entire house. It was that great an accomplishment. And he had more news to top that.

"Look." Dean's gaze fell to the arm resting on the table and Sam and Bobby followed with their own eyes.

It was obvious Dean was putting an enormous amount of energy into his actions, and it payed off. His arm shook, the hand twitched, but still it moved. Sam and Bobby gaped gleefully at the sight of Dean's arm raising several inches off the table before scooting forward to his empty juice glass. He clutched at the cup, hands trembling wildly. But he was determined to prove himself.

In the end he did. And Sam's proud, beaming smile was enough to have made the fight worthwhile.

"You'll be completely back to normal in no time," Sam enthused, hand reaching out and squeezing Dean's shoulder.

"I think it's about time we hit the road," Dean agreed. "Get back in this thing."

And it was Bobby's turn to interject as he held up a hand to stop the boys' train of thought. He seemed stoic, apologetic even, and he failed to make eye contact with either brother as he spoke. "Boys, you forgetting somethin?"

They looked up, imploring eyes questioning what their relief and happiness failed to allow as memory.

Bobby stuffed his hands into the pockets of his quilted vest. He stood and crossed the room, then back again. Pacing. "I think you're forgettin' what brought you out here in the first place. You two are wanted men."


	24. Chapter 24

**_I'm so sorry for the long wait. I have no excuse that hasn't been made before - only my humble apologies. Hopefully the post will suffice. I'm thinking another 2 chapters and we're done her folks. Thanks for reading!_**

They stayed in town for another three days, biding time between the local library and the cabin in a nationwide search of exactly _how_ the Winchester brother's had been found out. Bobby even made a trip to the sheriff's office, posing as a detective, in an effort to discover the truth. And when all was said and done everything pointed in one single direction.

Cassie.

"Cassie?" Dean asked incredulously, his eyes bugging out at the mere notion, demanding more evidence even as his brother hunched back over the computer. "I mean, I know the bitch was crazy, but how could she possibly be behind this?"

Sam shrugged, tapping out a few more key strokes before spinning the laptop in Dean's direction. Bobby hovered behind him, leaning over his shoulder as they read the evidence on the screen together while Sam narrated. "It's the only thing that makes sense, Dean. She wanted revenge-"

"Revenge for what, Sam? It's not exactly like I set out to screw her over. I had a damn stroke, man!"

"She doesn't know that, Dean. She's seriously psycho, ya know? I mean, it's like that one movie with Glen Close; uhhh, Fatal Attraction. Half an hour and she's totally obsessed with you and on top of that she thinks you used some trip to the hospital to break your promise of a road trip."

"I never promised a road trip!" Dean spat out. He couldn't hide his exasperation as he threw his hands up in the air. "This is ridiculous."

Sam shrugged again. He looked helpless, apologetic, and in full agreement of Dean's proclamation. But what could they do?

"I mean seriously, Sam? What the hell?" He continued. "How did she manage this?"

Peering over the top of the laptop monitor Sam found the spot on the page that answered Dean's question and pointed. "She comes from money, Dean. And power. Her father's a state senator."

"So she had Daddy buy off the cops and put them on our trail?"

Shaking his head, Sam replied, "Not exactly. I mean, _we_ put the cops on our trail all by ourselves. We are guilty of the crimes they're after us for, ya know. All she did was get Daddy's money to buy an investigation into us. And when her PI's stumbled on the goldmine that is our criminal history she ran with it."

"That's bullshit, Sam! After all the people we've saved, we _deserve_ to catch a break. The money we take is _owed_ to us."

"The government doesn't see it that way. They don't know what we do, what we're saving the world from. In the eyes of the law we've committed identity theft, credit card fraud, check fraud, insurance fraud–"

"Check fraud?" Dean's eyes widened, mouth dropping as he picked up on what Sam had hoped to throw in the mix silently. "Sam we never..."

Sam's little pick-pocketing scheme on their way to the cabin had been weighing heavily on him and he really needed to get the truth off his chest. He just hadn't wanted Dean to actually _hear_ what it was he was admitting to. There was a twinkle of guilt obvious in his eye and Dean saw it immediately.

"Saaam," Dean growled, glaring at his brother. "Sammy."

Sam gulped and pulled his lower lip between his teeth before nodding. "Ikindastolesomechecksandcashedthemonthewayuphere," he admitted hastily.

Dean cocked his head, questioning, eyebrows raised. "You did what?"

Taking a deep breath Sam resigned himself to the truth and slowed down his admission. "We stopped at a diner on the way here, and I stole some checks out of some woman's purse. I cashed them while you were sleeping."

"How much, Sam?"

"Huh?"

"I asked you how much," Dean demanded. "How much did you steal?"

Sam shuddered. He'd expected his brother to be mad, but this was a bit ridiculous.

"Just a few hundred. But I was going to pay her back."

"Was? You mean you're not going to anymore? We don't steal money from _people _- we borrow it from companies. Places that won't miss what we take. What were you thinking?"

"It's just that I..."

Dean waited, somewhat impatiently for his brother to finish the sentence. But when it became clear that Sam had no intentions of completing what he had started he pressed the issue. "It's just that you what, Sam?"

In an effort for more hesitation, Sam jumped from his seat and began pacing the room, crossing from the kitchen to the living room and back again before Dean, once again, lost patience.

"Sam! Talk. Now."

Sam blinked, mind unconsciously straying to the fact that Dean's speech was remarkably Dean once again. He knew it was just another stall tactic, but he had to fight the urge to compliment his brother on the accomplishment nonetheless. And of course, that's what this was all about, wasn't it. Dean. Dean and the stroke. Sighing as he ran a shaky hand through his tangled weave of hair, Sam sat back down and faced Dean.

"It was the way she looked at you," he finally admitted, cringing inwardly at the feared reaction.

"What?"

"Dean, please don't make me say this."

"Say _what_, Sam?"

Sam sighed, cringed, gave in. "Dean, you were so worried about people feeling sorry for you. And I was working so hard to convince you it was all in your head. Except–" Threading his fingers through his hair Sam took a minute to bring his thoughts together. "Except everywhere I looked, everywhere we went, they were proving you right!"

"Sam..." Dean reached a hand out to his brother, ready to relinquish him from saying anymore.

But now that Sam had started he wasn't willing to finish. "So there we were, in that diner. And I knew we needed money, and that you weren't going to be able to get it for us. I couldn't very well sneak off to some bar in the middle of the night, and so this was the only way. I took a few checks out of her purse and then spent them at three different convenience stations along our route."

"What does that have to do with not paying her back?"

"Like I said, I was going to send the money back later. But then she started doing what everyone else had been doing. Staring at you, making comments–"

"And you didn't have it in you to just walk away like you kept preaching to me to do?" Dean rolled his eyes and threw up his hands, right arm a little slower to follow than the left, but noticeably more mobile than it had been even the day before.

Sam's eyes followed his brother's movement and for a minute he forgot about the fight they were in the middle of. After the initial movement Dean had experienced at the old farmhouse he had been progressively gaining strength and mobility. Sam was beyond proud of his brother's determination to fight, his success, and he wanted nothing more than to make that known. To actually say just how overwhelmingly ecstatic he was at Dean's accomplishment.

But now was not the time. Sam quickly brought himself back to the present as he heard the low growl of disgust coming from his brother's throat. He looked up just in time to see Bobby make a move to intervene.

Stepping in, Bobby set a firm hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed tight. _Calm down, son. _"Dean, what's done is done. You can't look to the past, boy. Now you just gotta figure out how to fix this."

Sam nodded his agreement with Bobby, and despite the burning urge Dean felt to hit something he couldn't argue their sound logic.

"So lemme get this straight. My brother, mister moral compass himself, steels checks out of a woman's purse which, I might add, you don't plan on paying back because she looked at me funny. And this all culminated from the fact that I couldn't win money in a game of pool because of my limitations due to a stroke - cash money that we _had _to earn because we got run out of town on charges of credit card fraud and insurance fraud discovered by some _bitch_ who I met in a bar and talked to for a measly thirty minutes. And you're telling me that I shouldn't worry about all that?"

"Exactly." Bobby tossed a cheesy grin Dean's way and then quickly sobered his expression when the boy proved unreceptive to the attempt to make light of the situation. "Actually, Dean, what I'm saying is that you can't change what happened in the past. It sucks, yeah. And you need to take the facts into account. But wasting all this energy on hating this girl and being frustrated at your own inability to restructure the chain of events right from the get-go isn't going to change what happened."

"What the hell are you talking about, old man?" Dean demanded, suddenly becoming defensive. From the corner of his vision he could see Sam nodding his head in agreement with their father's friend. Feeling betrayed, Dean spat out furiously, "I don't blame myself for what happened if that's what you're getting at."

Bobby cocked an eyebrow and stared Dean down. "Don't you?"

"No!" Dean jumped up from his seat, spilling the chair on its side in the process, and stormed across the room. He leaned against the kitchen counter, breathing heavily and staring out the window, knowing instinctively that he wouldn't be reacting this way if what he was attesting to was true. But he couldn't turn off the reaction, couldn't stop the onslaught of emotion that spilled from his pores. It was one final side-effect from the stroke that continued to linger despite his desperate attempts to rehabilitate himself . These days Dean read like an open book.

"So what if I do?" he finally relented, spinning back around to face the other two men.

"So what if I feel as though all of this is my fault? That if I hadn't set that chain of events in motion that none of this would have ever happened and we would be all the way on the other side of the country hunting down a Wendigo, or a..a...a...poltergeist, or something. Things would be different."

There was a fire in Dean's eyes that Sam hadn't seen since days before the stroke and found himself biting his lower lip to keep the smile at bay. He was overjoyed at the realization that his brother, the brother from weeks ago, was finally back. But despite Dean's vast overreaction to the present situation Sam still knew he was right to worry. Which also meant that now was not the time to celebrate in Dean's victories. They had to focus.

And right now Dean was in a state of self-deprecation, laying blame on himself for circumstances far beyond his control, and Sam was determined to put a stop to it. He did so the only way he knew how.

"You're right, Dean," Sam broke in, forcing himself not to react at Dean's jaw drop or Bobby's double take. "This whole thing is completely your fault."

"Sammm," Bobby warned, eyes wide with a look of disbelieving incredulity. _What the hell are you doing?_

"I mean think about it. You're the one who insists on putting yourself on the line for every single hunt. You offer up your head to every creature and demon we meet as though it were a battering ram, completely disregarding the precious organ locked in side that thick skull of yours. It was only a matter of time before you went out and got yourself a little bit of brain damage - you were clearly asking for it."

Dean crossed his arms and huffed. "But I didn't–"

"And then there's that girl. It was only a matter of time before you landed yourself a looney bin worthy nutcase, Dean. You totally should have seen through her sweet, innocent exterior and seen her for the conniving bitch she truly is. How could you not have known her plan from the get go? You could have stopped all of this."

"Seriously, Sam, I'm not–"

Flailing his arms dramatically, Sam stood from his place at the table. He wasn't done. "For that matter, Dean, maybe we should go back as far as the first credit card we used that wasn't our own. Or the first insurance we stole. You would have been what, six? Maybe seven?" He ran his hands through his hair, gritting his teeth before continuing.

"Or how about the first time you scammed someone in a game of pool? I think that could all have something to do with why the cops are on our tail, huh?"

"Sam, please. Why are you saying–"

"But then of course we would have to go all the way back to the night mom was killed. I suppose that was your fault, too? That and Dad's vendetta against the demon who killed her. Four years old, man, I'm sure you were behind that whole thing, too." He finally stopped, breathing hard, and stared straight at his brother awaiting a response.

Dean blinked, crossed his arms, pulled his lips taut against his teeth. "You done?" He demanded.

Sam nodded as he sucked in a breath of air and held it. Dean was clearly pissed off, he could tell by the way his brother's chest heaved and his nostrils flared. This was it; his one chance. It had to work.

"Let's get one thing straight, Sam." He paused, holding out the moment as he produced the sternest expression he could come up with. Arms crossed against his chest, Dean locked eyes with his little brother and watched his reaction, seeing the muted cringe hidden beneath a facade of authority.

Sweat rolled down Sam's forehead as he waited out the explosion he knew was about to come from his older brother, suddenly realized he'd gone just a tad too far. _I never should have said anything about Mom and the fire_, he mentally berated himself. _It was too much. _He waited, trying desperately to read Dean beneath his eyes and failing miserably, before accepting that he would just have to take whatever came to him.

Breathing a fiery snort through his nose Dean finally spoke. "You, Sammy, are a terrible _terrible_ bluffer." His steely eyes gained a twinkle and his frown turned up into a smirk as he took in the incredulous expression on Sam's face at realizing he'd been played.

"You knew-" Sam stammered.

"You don't honestly think I would believe you could be so blatantly rude without having some kind of hidden agenda, do you?"

Sam's mouth dropped, trying not to fully give in to the laughter that verged. But in the end it was an impossible feat; it had been so long since Dean had been truly happy, forever since either one of them had laughed, and it could no longer be suppressed.

"Was I that obvious?" He asked before breaking down into chest rattling laughter.

Dean nodded, his eyes crinkling, hand clasped over his chest as though here were still trying to hold in the jubilance, but to no avail. "You're so transparent, Sam, you might as well not even try to hide it. It's not worth it."

He allowed the laughter for another minute, noticing that Bobby had joined in as well. "But seriously, Sam," Dean finally broke in, sobering the mood, "Thank you. You're absolutely right, and I appreciate you pointing that out."

"It's true, Dean. You've got to stop blaming yourself for everything that happens in our lives. All this, everything that's happened since your stroke, it's all fate. None of it could have been prevented. You got it?"

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "I get it. But that still doesn't change the fact that Cassie played a huge part in sicking the cops on us. And for that, she has to pay."

Nodding, Sam clasped his hands together and locked eyes with his brother. "Something tells me you have a plan, too."

A twinkle came to Dean's eyes, an evil glint to his smile as he looked from Sam to Bobby and back to Sam again. "You bet your ass I do."


	25. Chapter 25

**_OK, guys, this is it. The final chapter. I know I'm a bit late, but I wanted to finalize this in this chapter and I've been out of town. I hope you all enjoy. Hopefully it will suit everyone's wantes and desires. Anad I can't thank you all enough for sticking with me through the entire story. It's been a LONG time coming and writers block has not been kind to me. Love you all!_**

Sam anxiously paced the sidewalk in front of the motel they were staying at as he chewed on his lower lip, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. As he passed room number 7 he glanced through the crack in the curtain where Dean and Bobby were getting ready for the meeting with Cassie. He felt a shiver run down his spine at the prospect of what was to come, still unsure about this 'brilliant' plan of Deans.

Truth be told, Sam had been beyond shocked that Dean was even willing to go in the direction he'd chosen. It was so un-Dean-like. But as his older brother had put it, what better way to get back at a schemer than with a better scheme.

This would work, Sam was certain. It wasn't that the plan was foolproof. No, not by a longshot. But there was just no other option. They needed to get back to their lives, needed to stop being made to feel like fugitives simply because no one was willing to believe in what the Winchester's protected the world from.

So Sam paced the sidewalk. Up and down, up and down, waiting for Cassie to show up in her fancy little car with her snobby little attitude so that they could teach her a lesson she wouldn't soon forget. Nobody messed with the Winchester brothers and got away with it.

Another ten minutes passed in agitated silence in which Sam continued to wear a track in the concrete before he looked up to see Cassie's blue BMW pull into the motel parking lot. She had the top down and her hair blew wildly in the wind.

Scowling, eyes hidden behind large sunglasses, Cassie screeched to a stop in the parking space right in front of where Sam stood. She killed the engine and climbed from the car with a clear purpose, loudly directing her greeting to Sam. "I should have know he would be too chicken shit to come see me himself."

Sam flinched, renewing his sense of hatred for her insincerity and disingenuousness. She still had no clue about what had actually broken up her night with Dean. The fact that she had been so rash to sick the cops on them without even looking into why Dean collapsed in the first time made his blood boil. Not that it was any of Cassie's business, but if she was going to go through the trouble of looking into their past she might have made an effort to look into the current situation as well.

Making a conscious decision not to let Cassie goad him Sam ignored her question. "Do you have any idea what your little stunt caused?" He crossed his arms against his chest, flexing his muscles and drawing himself up to his full height, making a valiant effort to make himself appear menacing.

But Cassie wasn't easily deterred. "I'm sorry," she replied, drawling in an innocent voice as she batted her eyelashes at Sam. "I think I missed the memo where _I _wracked up a rap sheet a mile long with your and your brother's name on it. That's all you, buddy."

"You don't know what you're talking about. There's a lot to that that you don't have a clue about."

"I call it like I see it, Sam. And what I _saw_ is two brothers who are wanted for insurance fraud, credit card theft, _murder_," her eyes widened as she counted off the list of charges.

"We're not murderers," Sam insisted, dropping his arms to his sides and stalking off down the sidewalk. He paused in front of their room, debating on whether to blow the top on the whole thing. Suddenly Sam wasn't in the mood to play this out, and he was getting more and more nervous the longer he was in Cassie's presence. There was something about her that just screamed one card short of a full deck.

"Not murderers, huh?" she cooed, slowly advancing on Sam, never breaking eye contact. "That's really interesting."

"What is?"

"Your confession. I noticed you didn't deny any of the other charges. You saying those are real?"

Sam winced, and backed away another step. "There were extenuating circumstances, Cassie. It's not as black and white as it seems. And you putting the cops on our trail simply because of a tryst gone wrong was totally unnecessary." He knew he was being far too polite and underspoken, but he also knew that getting angry would only succeed in him making mistakes. Sam had to stay calm.

"It wasn't just a _tryst gone wrong_. We had something. Your brother and I, there was something good!"

"So you thought you would destroy that by calling the police?"

"He left me!" Cassie screamed. Fury raged in her eyes, a psychotic fire that scared the shit out of Sam.

She lunged forward, closing the gap between the two of them, and grabbed Sam by the collar of his shirt. Both hands fisted material as her hot breath blew over Sam's face. "He promised we would go away from here...and then he went and left me."

"You think he did that on purpose?" Sam shot back, trying to hold back the tremble in his voice.

"I know men. I know what they're like, what they will do. They will say anything to get what they want. I thought Dean was different."

"This is ridiculous, Cassie. Dean is a lot of things, but even he has his limits. That would have been an incredible fabrication he came up with if he was truly trying to break a promise he'd made. It's hardly his style." Sam swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, completely unsure what to make of her comment. On the one hand he loved his brother and knew he was a perfect gentleman with every woman he'd ever encountered. But on the other hand, as much as Sam hated to admit it, his brother was a dog. He couldn't very well assure her that Dean had every intention of taking her with them on their family roadtrip - because that would be a lie. There was no way in hell Cassie would have ever been allowed to come.

"Well maybe you need to get to know your brother better. Because he sure as hell did everything he could to get away from me."

_Shoulda been sooner,_ _maybe we wouldn't be having this conversation._ "Look, lady, I think I know my brother just a little bit more than one little half hour conversation in the middle of a crowded bar could possibly tell you. It was a real emergency that night, and you've only succeeded in making things a whole hell of a lot worse."

Sam glanced at the door to their room from the corner of his eye, biting his lower lip in the process. The circular reasoning of this conversation was getting him nowhere and Cassie had a way of making him feel edgy and ready to lash out. It was Bobby's turn to play his part and Sam was anxious for him to appear.

As if on cue their room door cracked open and the older hunter peeked his head out the door, glaring sternly at Sam, then Cassie, then back to Sam. "Boy, will you keep it down out here?" he grit out through a facade of anger. "You're brother's getting agitated. He don't need that today."

Picking up on the cue, Sam shot back with his prepared response. "I'm sorry Bobby. I thought we'd be done with this by now. 'S he okay?" He crossed the distance between himself and Bobby, pushing himself into the crack Bobby had left open, purposefully ignoring the curious stares Cassie was sending in their direction.

Sticking his head through the door, Sam mumbled to the interior of the room. He took great care not to say anything discernable while assessing his brother for his readiness in the next step. Dean gave a slight nod, his face expressionless and not giving away any of the annoyance or disgust Sam was certain he was feeling at both Cassie's attitude and the acting job he was about to undertake.

When Sam pulled away and faced Cassie once again he could see that she was dying with curiosity and he had to work to suppress his enthusiasm, glad to know their plan had a chance of working.

She slapped her hands against her waist and glared. "What the hell is going on, Sam? What was that all about? And if you're brother is here then why the hell doesn't he have the guts to come face me himself?"

"It's nothing," Sam snapped, purposefully attempting to deflect her attention away from the conversation she had just witnessed, in effect doing the reverse and drawing the spotlight directly back to the interruption. "You don't need to worry about that. Right now I just want to try and work something out with you on the issue of the cops. How can we fix this?"

The longer Sam continued to steer the conversation away from his brother the more desperate Cassie became on the topic. He was steering her right where they wanted her.

"What makes you think I _want_ to fix this?" Cassie demanded, stalking closer to Sam once again. He didn't miss the fact that she slowed down near the window, clearly trying to catch a glimpse through the crack in the curtain. But she soon turned her attention back to Sam and the issue at hand. "I didn't do anything wrong, Sam. It's not my fault that you and your brother are regular criminals. You did this all to yourself. How dare you try and lay any of this on me."

Sam stormed forward, seeing her flinch as his immense height finally seemed to have a desired effect when he combined it with genuine anger. "I told you before, there's a lot to us that you don't know. You could never even begin to understand, Cassie."

"What's there to understand, Sam? You two are criminals. Plain and simple. And to top that off, your brother is a weasely little con artist who couldn't be bothered to tell me the truth when he got too caught up in his lies."

"They weren't lies!" Sam finally burst out, sick to death of hearing his brother being accused of something he wasn't. "Lines, maybe, but not lies. If things had worked out the way he'd planned for the evening you two would have spent another hour or two at that bar and then headed off somewhere - a hotel or your place, who knows - and you can only imagine what would have happened from there."

"Oh yeah?" Cassie demanded. "Then what made him change his mind? What happened that turned a perfectly normal conversation into a circus act? I've never in my life been so embarrassed!"

"He had a goddamn stroke!" Sam finally screamed, charging towards Cassie and grabbing her by the shoulders. He squeezed tight, barely able to keep himself from picking her up and throwing her as far into the parking lot as he possibly could. He had never encountered someone so shallow and self-obsessed in his life.

But he held back, and Cassie took half a minute to allow herself to be shaken by Sam's violence, only to realize that he had no intention of causing her harm. She chuckled evilly at him before looking pointedly down at the bloodless fingers squeezing tightly to her arms. A pointed look - _get your hands the hell off me_ - had Sam releasing her as though he'd just been burned and he stepped back, unsure what the next step would be.

Another chuckle, an amused smile, and Cassie crossed her arms against her chest. "You have got to be kidding me. What kind of fool do you take me for?"

Sam flinched, knowing what he had to do next and truly dreading it. "You don't believe me? Look for yourself." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the room key, slid it into the lock and pushed the door open.

Letting himself into the room, Sam began to speak. "He'd gotten hit in the head a week or so earlier. Didn't bother to tell me his head was still hurting him. And then the night you two met a blood vessel burst in his brain and it caused a stroke." Sam's voice had gotten lower as he explained the circumstances, no longer needing to yell as he sensed Cassie's entire demeanor change. He looked behind him to see Cassie standing nervously in the doorway, mouth agape, and for once speechless.

Beside Sam, Dean played his part perfectly. He sat slumped to the side in the wheelchair, strapped in at the chest for good measure. His right hand was curled into the most grotesque fist Dean could muster and sat limply on his lap while the other hand lay beside it loosely. Dean's eyes were open wide, darting frantically back and forth between Sam and Cassie. A thin line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth and Sam hesitated only a second before he bunched up a corner of his shirt to wipe it away, winking inconspicuously at his brother as he did so.

He wanted to do more. Part of him wanted to burst out laughing at the detail Dean was putting into making this look real. And the other part of him wanted to burst out in tears at just how close to being real the situation had been. Sam had to remind himself forcibly that Dean was fine, that he was able to walk and talk and shoot a gun, that given another month there would be no signs remaining that Dean had ever experienced such a traumatic brain trauma. But for the time being he had to be strong and carry out the rest of the plan without giving anything away.

"Sam, what the hell are you doing bringing her in here?" Bobby demanded, deciding to give the youngest Winchester the push he needed to get him back on track.

Clearing his head, Sam straightened and looked back at Cassie. "She had to see for herself the trouble she caused," he answered the older man while locking gazes with the girl who had yet to move from her post in the doorway.

When Cassie finally spoke her voice was weak, lacking the strength it had held only minutes before. But she still couldn't hold in the accusation and defense she was so accustomed to spewing out. "I still don't see how anything I did could have caused this." She couldn't tear her eyes away from Dean, gawking as though she had come upon the scene of a horrible accident.

Sam took a deep breath, gearing up for his part in the lie. "Not the first one, no. But the second one..."

Cassie's eyes widened and her hand began to tremble as she finally took a small step into the room. He staggered her way drunkenly over to the first bed, _Dean's bed_, and Sam glared at her.

"I don't recall inviting you to have a seat," Sam spat out icily.

She jumped back up, yelping a bit at the coldness in Sam's voice and scanned around the room. The older man - a caretaker or friend, she assumed - didn't look any more forgiving than Sam did. And even Dean seemed to be shooting daggers at her through his gaze. He had yet to say anything, and he certainly did look worse off than he had when she had barged into his hospital room all those weeks ago. But still...

"He– he had a... second stroke?" Cassie asked weakly, backing up so that she could at least lean against a wall if they wouldn't allow her to sit.

Sam nodded as he placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean rolled his head toward Sam's touch, resting his cheek against the back of his little brothers hand, silently reveling in the normally taboo exchange. He was 'acting' after all.

"He was getting better," Sam explained sadly. They had him taking a few steps. He was making sound, saying a few syllables. He was getting better, and by all accounts he was going to make a full recovery. And then you had to go and get the cops involved - all because you thought Dean had made something up to get away from you- and we had to take off."

Sam's expression softened as he worked to make this real. It wasn't hard. Most of what he was telling Cassie was the truth. But he'd been involved in enough cons throughout his life to know that it wasn't so much what you said so much as how you told it. If he was going to make this work he had to be convincing enough to melt the heart of the ice queen herself.

"We're good people, Cassie," he explained, branching off on a necessary tangent. "Yeah, he and I both have records, but it's only because we don't make any money doing what we do. Our line of work, it's a pretty thankless job. The only way we can stay afloat is with credit card scams and stolen insurance."

"What do you do?" Cassie asked, teetering on the edge of skepticism and belief.

_You're getting there. Can't lose it now, Sam. _He glanced at Dean for a second, squeezed his brothers shoulder, and then flashed a meek half smile at Cassie. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Just know that what we do saves a lot of lives. We're the good guys."

And then, before she could press any further, Sam swung the conversation right back the where it needed to be, effectively ending the line of questions on their job. If Sam had looked at his brother right then he would have seen a sparkle of pride in the older hunter's eyes. Sam would have made a damn fine lawyer.

"Thing is, Cassie, we left the hospital too soon. They were giving him a ton of medications that we couldn't take with us. Pain killers, muscle relaxants, blood thinners..."

Sam heard a hitch in Cassie's throat as she went to take a breath and he smiled inwardly, knowing she was putting two and two together. _Not as dumb as she looks. _

He grinned wryly as he nodded his head, confirming what she was figuring out. The blood thinners were keeping him from having more problems. Stopping them as abruptly as we did...well, it didn't take long for more complications to arise. The next one struck just a day and a half out. We were on our way to safety, planning to hold up in a cabin that belongs to a friend of Bobby's, and Dean just went rigid. Right there in the middle of the car. And I couldn't do anything about it."

He saw Cassie stiffen, and gulp. Watched her eyes stray from their locked position on his eyes back over to Dean again, and a hint of sadness washed over her expression.

"The cops were after us," Sam continued. _"Your_ cops. I had no choice but to keep driving until we met up with Bobby. Got him to a small clinic where they wouldn't be likely to recognize us from the five o'clock news, but it was too late to do anything. They don't think he'll recover this time."

Sam dropped his eyes, a master story weaver spinning an incredible story. Forget being a lawyer, Sam would have made a killing in Hollywood. He stayed in that position, waiting, hoping. _Take the bait, Cassie. Take it. Bite!_

She finally did. "All this is my...he, he would have gotten better if I hadn't–"

"Exactly." Sam confirmed, refusing to allow her to wallow in pity. He brought his gaze back up to meet hers and stared her down. "So now, not only can't we do our job. But we've got the cops on our tail to boot. What do you think of Daddy's money now, Cassie?"

For a long time she was silent, soaking up the situation, gaping at Dean and the wreck she had created in his life, making a decision. It wasn't until after Sam interrupted her thoughts with a none-to-gentle reminder that "We're still waiting, Cassie. What are you going to do about this situation?" that Cassie finally sprang into action.

She didn't speak directly to the three men in the room, instead pulling out her cell phone and hitting a number on speed dial. They could hear the rings echoing through the receiver end of the phone and then heard a gruff man's voice come on the line.

"Patrick, I need you to do me a favor," Cassie began, dismissing any pleasantries. "Those two boys I had you investigate a few weeks back, I need you to call off the manhunt." She paused, listening to the other side of the conversation, and then replied. "Yeah, turns out I got the wrong guys."

The lies rolled off her tongue easily, scarily easily, as Cassie spoke to her father's Private Investigator and convinced him that he had found records of two different brothers and that the two she had wanted investigated were completely innocent of the crimes listed in the dossier. After nearly ten minutes she finally said her goodbyes and clicked the phone shut before looking back to the Winchester brothers.

"Give it a day and you shouldn't have any more trouble with the cops. Are you going to be okay here for a day?"

Sam nodded, biting his tongue on the 'thank you' that wanted to escape. Sometimes he was too nice. She didn't deserve gratitude; and she didn't seem to be expecting it either.

Standing up, Cassie met Dean's eyes. "I guess sometimes I just don't think," she offered as an apology. It was about as sincere as they were going to get. "I didn't mean to cause you any trouble. I really didn't."

It was all Dean could do to maintain his facade. He had never been one for silence, never had much success in keeping his opinions to himself. _Diarrhea of the mouth_ Sam called it.

He was thrilled when Sam spoke for him, offering his annoyance at the problems Cassie had caused and keeping Dean from having to voice them himself. "It's much too little and far too late," Sam snapped. "He could have been recovering in a hospital, could have totally avoided ever relapsing. He'd been walking right now if he'd never met you, Cassie. You're poison."

She blinked at that, but didn't say a word. She seemed to have learned her lesson, and clearly had decided that she wouldn't put up any more of a fight towards the Winchester brothers.

"I'm sorry, Dean. Sam." Eyes sparkling with moisture, Cassie grabbed for the handle of the motel door and let herself out. She didn't look back, but pulled the door shut with a soft click.

Inside, the three me held their breath. Minutes passed and nobody moved, no one breathed. Time seemed to stand still. It was long after the roar of Cassie's engine disappeared that Sam finally broke from his tableau and hesitantly crossed to the window.

He half expected to find Cassie standing on the other side, waiting to call them on their scheme, ready to put the cops back on their tail. But outside all he saw was normality; there were three other cars in the parking lot, all belonging to other tenants of the motel. Trees lined the far edge of the pavement, but there was no place for a car to hide out in. Nobody was outside. It was deserted.

"It's safe, Dean" Sam announced in a hushed whisper. "She's gone."

Dean didn't have to be told twice, and he quickly pushed himself out of the wheelchair and began pacing the room, almost as though to make clearly visible the fact that he could indeed walk on his own. He reached up with his still mildly weak right hand and brushed the remaining saliva off of his chin, grimacing at the symbolism.

"So you think that's it? You think the cops are going to be off of our tails now?" Dean asked hopefully.

Sam shrugged noncommitally. "I think we're not going to be any worse than we were before this whole mess started. We've still got to be careful, but maybe our descriptions won't be plastered around convenience stores from California all the way to Maine. We'll give it our best shot.

"You boys hide out in here for another day or two and I'll keep an eye on the posters for you before I head on back home," Bobby interrupted, finally speaking. "I'll stick around until its safe for you two to be out on your own again."

"Thanks, Bobby," the two brothers chimed in unison.

Finally, with a major weight off their shoulders, the two boys were able to relax and just enjoy their time together. Dean settled onto his bed and aimed the remote at the TV, immediately settling into a rhythm of channel surfing as Sam flopped down beside him. Together they enjoyed the monotony of the television as Bobby laid out on the other bed, book in one hand and beer in the other.

"Hey Dean?" Sam broke in, finally interrupting the silence.

"Yeah?"

"Dude, drool?"

Dean laughed, punching Sam lightly in the arm as he cried out his defense. "Hey, I was trying to make it realistic. You're the idiot who decided to wipe it up with his shirt. What, you just wanted to save a piece of me for later?"

"In your dreams, bro."

"I'm just making an observation, Sam. Don't blame me if it's true."

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes, but chose not to offer a rebuttal. He knew when he was beaten and he could bow out gracefully.

In the end all that really mattered was that they had their health, their freedom, and each other. Nothing else stood a chance at chipping away at their happiness.

**_Stay tuned from my next story, Retribution. It's mostly finished and I'm not posting until I'm totally done this time (I've learned my lesson on WIP's - as much as I enjoy the immediate feedback it's just too hard trying to write on a schedule.) With any luck I will post the first chapter of Retribution by the end of the month. Hope to see you there!_**


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